Lynn Michael Martin: I See Your Face

I see your face in every face I see,
for when you left me, you left me no more
than hopes unsure, that when these glimpses flee,
they will not leave my yearning senses poor
beyond all remedy. Still, though they let
all specters fade; though my fair dreams they mar—
still, you are pure, and I shall see you yet;
over this darkness I shall see a star.
For hope is not a virtue, nor a trait
taught or imputed like some righteousness—
Hope is the world entire of those who wait,
and, seeing beauty, settle not for less.
I see the night; I see your glory fade,
but I recall you when the world was made.

me1.jpgLynn Martin believes that the essence of the universe is joy, and that in poetry there should shine both the earth’s joy and a light from beyond the world.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

Chadwick Miller: At the Burial

Soft air waited in the hall
and whispered behind the pews.
A woman’s silent sobbing
echoed through the room.

A young man’s heart
hid within his clothes
as he stood awkward
in the space,
that every friend tried to heal.

How have you been?
“Good, and you?”
Does it matter?
“The weather is gorgeous.”

Soft air waited in the hall
and whispered behind the pews.
Color is magic to a child
but adults have chosen black.

FB_IMG_1514046196304Chadwick Miller is an amateur poet who enjoys life’s experiences, different cultures, and learning from children.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

Christopher Good: Paths

Paths beaten to dust beneath footsteps 

slow and sore, worn by far too long a journey. 

Circle-paths burnt hard in the empty rock of a 

troublesome desolation. 


Circle-burnt hearts turned cold in a stony road, 

long but for this desperate quest to end, 

long for the last dust of this path to settle, 

to rest. 


Troubled dust blowing scorched over hard paths,  

charred circles, war-councils, broken cisterns, 

clouds without water, rogue stars, all will 

find troubled peace: 


Late day, dew cools long-dried Eden; 

a single step crushes the silence. 


       Christopher is a deeply opinionated Canadian Christian socialist thinker and craftsman; he enjoys church sociology, literature, languages, music, and building hospitality furniture.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

Daniel Hess: Envy Most I Those

Envy most I those
who easily express . . . their thoughts . . .
with words . . . they just dispose
of complex metaphors like stubborn knots.
And clink down words like dominoes.
Some of us remain
confined to poetry, i.e.
(not wishing to complain)
that’s all we see
on which to tie
our damp interior thoughts so they can dry.

IMG_1638 (2)Daniel Hess is a disciple of Jesus, husband of Laura, and father of four who likes discovering the ordinary.

(Photography by Kenneth Godoy)

Emma Miller: Sapient Song to Love

I have walked amid the forest,
leaves low brushing by the face,
and I have reached to offer them to you.
Night has watched me with her wounded dew
hunting hopeful by the grand old roots.

There I have found the thorn
and willed to pierced the flesh,
giving gladly to the drop, life,
that you might live my love.
Lie down and rest your troubled head.
I cannot sleep, but rest in knowing that you do.
Your quiet joy is soft like violets
nestled in the green,
or child fingers over cheeks.
Yet at a sound from under garland wood,
with strengthened quiver full,
you bend the bow.

We call you Arinjay and it seems right:
may no fear seize your golden arrow’s arch,
for bowman in the house of God you are,
and He shall steady up your hand.
You rise from kings, who, under spritely charge,
defied old basilisk with their winged arrows armed.
They marched to silver clarion blasts
and so shall you,
when you have rested, take your aim.
I pray that naught may tread your shadow down
or weight your eyes away from off mountain top,
where comes your help.

You are lovely, my bowman, and I am content
to watch you from corridors of time and space.
I waved to you just now
as you turned to take your stately leave,
and last night I said goodbye.
It is enough to love you silent in my heart,
to see the light of glory in your eyes.
Sleep well sweet love, my bowman-archer-knight.
This heart has found its rest in loving you;
my thoughts are hushed now, as a gentle fawn.
Tomorrow I shall stand, slowly swaying to my feet.
Shall stand, growing strong and rich
with watchful prayer and tender womanhood.
Then I shall step from sackcloth into light.

Sleep well, my bowman, with eternal joy
for blessed you are, and blessed shall ever be.
May Heaven kiss you with her starry skies
and lead you firmly by the hand to victory.

emma_millerRecipe for Emma: 1 part humor, 2 parts poetry, 1 part music and a dash of art, stir continuously until sarcasm is the right consistency, serve with coffee.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

Poetry Reading, 8/18

To all who love books and poetry,

The Curator is hosting another poetry reading at the Rabbit and Dragonfly café in downtown Lancaster, PA. It will be held from 3-5 PM this Saturday, August 18th.

Last month we heard a lot of good poems and stories, and finished the afternoon with some incredible discussions. Be sure to join us on Saturday to read or to listen—bring your favorite poems or original compositions! Or if you can’t come, feel free to pass this on to any of your friends who might be interested.

The Curator staff

Dana Hege: Morning Hope

come, the wind is blowing
it is spinning avocado leaves through silver
we will twist open the window louvers,
unbolt the dark front door
it’s about time, come
the rooftops sit below us, white in the morning
the road holds the sun in its hands
and stretches smoothly, like a cat
come, even the ants know
as they dance across the counter
this is the morning, and there is hope

20180704_102654 (1)Dana Hege loves feeling the beauty and richness that words can hold, having heart talks over lattes in coffee shops, and seeing which crazy dream she can pursue next.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

Marlene Brubacher: Almost

I stared at Death, and he stared back.
I felt his breath upon my cheek.
And for his singular command
I listened, but he did not speak.

Eternity behind him rode
On comfortably coloured mare,
Industrious to calculate
Surrendered mortals she could bear.

I gazed—they gazed; and took the reigns
And drove away in dignity.
But Death and I have greeted once;
I covet his return for me,

For though we held no dialogue
I nearly touched Eternity.

DSCN7335 (2)Marlene Brubacher lives in the bush of northwestern ON; she loves Jesus, singing, Eastern Europe, white chocolate, the richness of friends, and the magic of words.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

Obi Martin: Joseph’s Hill

Up! the fire, light the day
wake the decadence of early morning.
Crouching springs the caveman
on the wreck of plastic flowerpots
and soil, burying his fingers
with the bending down of brambles in the earth.
Pulled as necessarily from
knowledge, duty, to action.
As leaves themselves are pulled
in the hedonism of evaporation.

He paws his fingers in the earth.
like the criminal centipede
who preaches treason
through the contentment
of being happy without equipment.

Find your transportation
in the rough mysticism
of a well-used broom or pitchfork.
embrace the dryness and eat the parching
sweet of a dream delocated into action.
build your bedroom on the thrown out slabs of concrete
as all civilizations have,
upon the refuse heap of previous generation.
Set up there Emerson
upon a muffin.
Project Mozart loudly,
preach him from the culverts.
baptize the ashes with oil and cardboard.
Free the groundhog of the stones
he cast out of his home,
and find a use for them in yours.
Fill up the cracks in the earth with more earth,
and harvest there nothing
but moments
covering your hand like the exuberance
of raspberries.

Obi_ProfileObi Martin says that the times he feels most alive come often when reading or writing.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

Daniel Hess: Sunrise

The other morning, I
(In figure, let no lucid eyes eclipse)
Awoke, then crept expectantly outdoors,
Stole a back-row seat to view the sky
And there, precisely where the ridgeline dips,
The curtain rose, and vanished in the shores.
So modest, yet so boldly light unveiled
The gentle contours of the morning’s earth—
It seemed so innocent of being watched.
Had I in open admiration hailed
The moment, would have quickly lost its worth.
But as the sacred moment passed untouched
It turned, and warmly gave a gracious hand.
Quite honored, I arose and felt at ease
With such majestic and inviting light,
And marveled as it roused the sleeping land.

IMG_1638 (2).JPGDaniel Hess is a disciple of Jesus, husband of Laura, and father of four who likes discovering the ordinary.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy