Kenneth Godoy: Yearning in a Boston House Church

Praise God when the afternoon is closing.
I may turn these eyes, turn away from the books,
and place my feet down the groaning red stairs
the carpet on them does nothing to stifle the sighs.

Praise God, when I board the swallowing train.
Praise God how it hurtles me into the moment
and onward to death, I suppose. But not yet,
not yet. Here is the station, here is the street.

Praise God for this street and the afternoon sun is
hidden by clouds and it’s colder than last week.
Praise God for the coolness. Praise God for this
gnawing of hunger that builds as I walk and here,

here is the church, here are the people. Open yourself
and greet all the people. Praise God that the
afternoon wanes and bleeds into the night and night
softly comes. These voices are soothing, these

Hymns are familiar, and slow and moving. Inside
me is hunger, an unceasing pine. Praise God
for the pining, the hunger. I am so tired. When may
I close my eyes, and waking then, I will find myself done.

kennyOf his writing, Kenneth Godoy says, “Poetry is bound to my soul.”

Photography by Kenneth Godoy.

Lynn Michael Martin: Snow

Here stands the temple echoless,
walled by the world’s edge, the horizon
no farther than a tree-row
greyed by snowfall.
Ornate with non-ornation,
shrine splendidly unclothed
by images, statuettes, friezes,
and if there is any shape,
it is the stormfronted gargoyle,
spitting sleet and snow;
or the censers, unscented, unglowing,
pouring out smoke, grey on sky,
white on the earth;
or the font curved outward,
bathing all the world
in sleep and mysteries.

Holiness is silence,
and world-pain released
by pure knowing,
experienced and become,
washed in and forgotten
in the numbness of the eyes,
and the opening of the eyes.

Gargoyles for the heathen,
censers for gods,
baptism for those who stand
over-earth and under-sky
bathed in the sleep which leads to waking.


Lynn Michael Martin Lynn 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

Kenneth Godoy: River in the Darkness

So this is my river in the darkness.
I cannot explain my faith. I do not see
with your eyes. You do not speak with my tongue.
My soul lives in a void yet I am drawn to you,
we share the space between us.
We are mutually human, mutually born and breathing.
Empathy is to see with light that surrounds us,
to see one another, to gaze and to weep.

Yet what is this darkness that dims my eyes?
What is the pain I cannot deny?

I believe that faith is like a spring of waters
that flows to the bourne, and the
bournes lead to rivers, and rivers
lead to the sea. Each one is its own
yet greater, more united than before.
My faith is like this river in the darkness
and whether I am bourne or spring, river or sea,
it matters not for I am all of these,
My faith flows from one to the other,
lost in many waters

yet found in them, through them.
The darkness is trivial then.
My pain is transient, perhaps.
For yet the river flows black, deep and still.

kennyOf his writing, Kenneth Godoy says, “Poetry is bound to my soul.”

Photography by Kenneth Godoy.

Gloria Kurtz: Flights of Yearning

And drifting to the soul of silence, yellow leaves
are falling on the call of alien winds and echoed cries;
are going, going on into the rustling trails
of sun-dried maple leaves, and still, where hushed they lie.

The light lies scarce on these forsaken worlds of peace;
the puddled skies drift on with an uncanny ease
on breezes empty as abandoned moth cocoons,
and wing away as steady as the day recedes.

Where bends the arching bow of distant worlds tonight?
But flinging stars could never fly within so brief
a time as far as does the home-sick soul in flights
of lonely yearning wholly given to this grief.

And yet this death again has overwhelmed itself
in beauty gentle as its sun; for still it weaves
upon the eastern sky a wave of quiet light,
and earth, though breaking, still this broken peace receives.

IMG_9938 (2) copy

Gloria Kurtz lives among the maple trees by New York’s Lake Ontario shoreline. Occasionally she escapes from textbooks to trails or canoes, but otherwise she thrives among her posse of young students.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

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.

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