Marilyn Martin: October

From this day on, I sleep no more forever.
This crisp October wakefulness will not depart.
A yellow leaf, aslant with dripping sunlight,
Has—silent—sailed and landed in my heart.


A3A48285-5AA9-43A0-B630-CB3572EDF101Marilyn Martin says, “Walking in wonder and worship includes loving words and loving God with my mind.”

Claudia Lehman: On Trying to Write a Love Poem

But when I think of you, my best beloved,
the many-hued profusion of the sounds
we use to paint the colors of our souls
outside—they burst and fall, and I am found
breathing an air too rich to fit a name.
And here lives all and nothing: scent of starlight
sweeter than constellations; silences
purer than words of peace. You are the knight
who built this house of healing for my soul,
and guards it with your own. A tender rain
of stillness hedges in my aching wounds
and gives my laughter room. What hemming name
could cut and trim and seam this up into
a garment seemly for such love to wear?
Hear in my silence thankfulness for silence.
Today this is my yearning and my prayer:
That peace will carry you as you have me,
a peace so rich that explanations fall
far short. And we shall meet in an embrace
deeper than poetry or speech at all.


IMG-1549
Claudia Lehman lives in Paltinis, Romania, with her favorite poet, Kyle. She loves teaching, old books, Earl Grey tea, wildflowers, her comfort zone, and a mongrel puppy called Alice.


Photography by Kenneth Godoy

Lynn Michael Martin: The Three Days

From everlasting to everlasting does the soul cry forth:
Blessed be his name,
who crowns the earth with his footsteps,
and plants his banner in the sky.
The clouds are his dominion,
and when he speaks the ages break forth:
they are the parchment of his thought
and of the word that speaks all beings
and all that shall be.
It is he who sends the mists to water the earth;
who sends the night to wrap it in slumber.

When he poured out his blood upon the world,
like the green river which he has outpoured,
like the light that grows verdant with spring—
when he gave that which is taken,
the heart’s blood, and sweat like tears—
when of his silence there distilled words—

Then was he seen in all his glory,
and the veil rent from heaven to the earth.
He showed himself the arbiter,
the voice that speaks rivers,
and of his stillness the world was formed.

This is what I know, who stand in the rain,
under the mist and the sunless sky,
that the hope of the world lies in darkness,
that in his tears all things shall be.


Lynn Michael Martin.jpegLynn 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 Merlin Yoder

Marilyn Martin: Ride the Winds

A Rock? Well, yes, but He is on the move.
No fixed security. I do not stand
On stable granite—no, I throw my arms
Around the neck of Him who rides the winds.
I give myself to Him who is alive,
Who will be what He will be. I let go
Of all I have determined He should be,
Of all expected ends, predicted ways,
And worship Him who, tameless, rides the winds.


A3A48285-5AA9-43A0-B630-CB3572EDF101Marilyn Martin says, “Walking in wonder and worship includes loving words and loving God with my mind.”


Photography by Kenneth Godoy

Laura Miller: Kansas Summer

The patient thrum of an insect crowd
The air is alive with rattling hum
“This is home,” I think out loud
My heart has missed you, here I come

The air is alive with rattling hum
Cicadas tune up as the sun dips low
My heart has missed you, here I come
Home to seas of gold, where time moves slow

Cicadas commence as the sun dips low,
A glowing ball in an empty sky
Kissing seas of gold as time moves slow
It is quietly lively as evening draws nigh

A glowing ball, an enormous sky
The patient thrum of a buzzing crowd
It is quiet, and lively as evening draws nigh
“This is home,” I think out loud


Laura Miller (2)Laura is a Goshen College student studying Spanish and English, and an avid lover of theatre, linguistics and good food.


Photography by Kenneth Godoy

Phoebe Anthus: For David’s Daughter

Sure of foot, she is upon the mountain pass,
and swims the seven seas of sorrow
with a strength that daunts the brave;
a strength poured in from unseen hands of love.
She has the eyes of dawn,
that mirror deep the sorrow of the night,
the dizzy stars that swing
from writhing ribs and question, why?

This long year passed away
like a secondary glance,
summed up in minimal smiles
that say “I’m fine,”
yet the indigo forests and crystal dew
cry out the pulse that beats
a sad farewell through purple tears
no one can classify as this or that.
A gentle passion
peering through the swathing of the mind,
calls softly, holds out pleading hands
to touch again
the face of one who loved us as his own.

Ah for day, where never comes the night,
when hearts shall rest within the thoughts of God,
when broken loves lie cradled hand in hand
and separation is at best a memory.


phoebe Phoebe Anthus finds her joy in quiet places, in the eyes of a child or simply in noticing little things. Her passion is to help create beauty out of the brokenness all around us.


Photography by Kenneth Godoy

Claudia Lehman: After Dinner

We have the gift of speech, we say,
making full use of it.

But there is an older gift,
waiting in the folds between syllables
and in the unexplained pauses at table
and in the drop of the sparrow between wingbeats:
an old gift granted to many more than we.

The mollusk oozing along unaware of Fibonacci’s spiral,
the faraway stars with no hope of being pinned with a Latin badge,
the octopi studying the swaying corals with wise squinted eyes,
the last passenger pigeon, pausing on a telegraph wire,
the roses shedding themselves and withdrawing into seed,
these all give to the world something our garrulous race never does
until Death catches our aimless racing under his wide blanket.

And what, I wonder,
as I listen in vain to the skies,
could be more true than silence?
Except, perhaps, a very few songs,
played slowly from far away.


IMG-1549Claudia Lehman lives in Paltinis, Romania, with her favorite poet, Kyle. She loves teaching, old books, Earl Grey tea, wildflowers, her comfort zone, and a mongrel puppy called Alice.


Photography by Kenneth Godoy

Kyle Lehman: Quiet Strings

Why would I worry that her heart lies still,
While mine is burning full of eager love?
For April never doubts a daffodil
Can feel, and find its way to warmth above.

And I can’t ask a chrysalis to split
Its shell: her beauty is for those who wait.
No butterfly would ever benefit
If hurried hands took down her garden gate.

Bread, cast on silent waters, is not gone.
And love, as wine upon this precious one,
Is mine to freely give. Thus has God’s Son
Poured out Himself until His own are won.

Let golden strands of grace be slowly spun.
Let Eucharist precede the King’s pavane.


kyle_lehmanKyle Lehman is a teacher and poet who loves to watch things grow, like seeds, strange ideas, hay bales, and the moon.


Photography by Kenneth Godoy

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