Bach wrote his solo cello suites as études, not for performance./
Imagine, the arpeggios of the first prelude, forever private, /
Poetry
Temple Cone 12-01-2010
Jeanne Murray Walker 11-01-2010
His friend Martha's making soup, because you still /
have to eat. Meanwhile, back in the Garden /
Jesse Nathan 9-01-2010
No, nothing,
she says, that is not God’s, and we approach
a crow ripping the entrails
of a truck-crushed fox, and the crow flees
Priscilla Atkins 8-01-2010
The hospital chaplain who sits in the room of a sick child
in Chicago and brings the child to God—not with words
but by her quiet presence.
Kevin Hadduck 7-01-2010
Over chatter of starlings and grackles,
you hear your father’s voice,
confident and constant as bee hum
in the backyard of your thoughts.
Richard Schiffman 6-01-2010
Somebody noticed this quaking purplish spray
hung incongruous on late-winter's bough,
and tied a festive bow of multicolored yarns
to cheer the anomalous blossoms,
Mary Anne Reese 3-01-2010
Alb: A white liturgical tunic worn as prayer for a heart protected from all stain and washed in the Blood of the Lamb.
Richard Hoffman 2-01-2010
Because I lay on my back as a boy in the grass of the small yard behind our house watching clouds move and become faces, mostly,
David Denny 1-01-2010
Of all the saints, my Anthony,
I love you best. For you did
what I long to do: you walked away
from a life of comfort and ease,
Scott Cairns 12-01-2009
This is the Month, and this the happy morn
Wherein the Son of Heav’ns eternal King,
Of wedded Maid, and Virgin Mother born,
John Gosslee 9-01-2009
The ram’s horn bellowed.
Fused with snapped spears and hatchet heads
nicked shields covered the field,
Nancy White 8-01-2009
that light kept me a year in its grip first
my feet caught fire then my blood
we moved at the edge of endlessness
headless handless mouthless mind-
Richard Schiffman 7-01-2009
To you who are lost today
like a needle in a haystack, reading this poem alone.
Alone, brother island, sister moon. The ocean is big,
Annie Deppe 6-01-2009
A grace of green, the underleaf
of olive, the birdsong’s
cradling. It’s as though
Nicholas Samaras 4-01-2009
How the earth now
struggles into spring.
How the cold hangs on,
each morning cracking to begin.
Heather Hallberg Yanda 2-01-2009
Violet, whispered Eve, because
saying the names aloud
made the act too real. Pansy
and woodruff, the flowers so small
Jacob Bathanti 1-01-2009
Who am I to cast light upon the human soul?
Sitting down to write peace-verses for mercenary gain,
Hunting for poems and hoping against hope that I need not
Rachel Guido deVries 12-01-2008
Imperfection is the place where the spirit enters,
the small hole in your shirt, the loosening threads
of carpet, the ache in your soul for forgiveness.