I expect the whitest dove,
purity as the Spirit breaks apart
firm blue of our ceilinged sky,
a tapered shape, an elegance.
But Picasso was right.
Poetry
Louis Templeman 7-01-2008
She spoke softly, calmly recounting
her pain through a furnace of litanies
that helped her hold on to the unbelief
Kevin Hadduck 6-01-2008
I have seen that I must
Confess to ignorance
I do not know you, although
I have loved you twenty years
The lifting of your lashes
Confess to ignorance
I do not know you, although
I have loved you twenty years
The lifting of your lashes
Carol Tyx 3-01-2008
Like the iris
in the side yard,
I have stopped blooming.
Dig me up, O Spirit,
and split me; where I have grown
calloused, break me open;
Kathleen Hirsch 2-01-2008
I cannot tell you why
I taste death;
the cupboards
are reasonably
arranged,
the windows clean as rain.
Jasmine Marshall Armstrong 1-01-2008
The bough we clasped
while climbing towards
phantasmal blue
has broken—
we lie on concrete,
begging with a
shattered golden bowl.
while climbing towards
phantasmal blue
has broken—
we lie on concrete,
begging with a
shattered golden bowl.
Daniel Skach-Mills 12-01-2007
My breath pluming white into December
could, to God, be incense rising out
of the puffing thurible of my body.
Up here, it’s impossible to tell for the fog
Donald W. Shriver Jr. 8-01-2007
From far-out depths they come,
swell swelling swell,
'til cresting they salute the sky
and tumble towards sand that waits immemorially
to receive them.
Summer u
Rose Marie Berger 7-01-2007
The narcotraficante commanded me
in gestures, take off your blouse.
Then he jerked it, scattering buttons—
smooth and pink—along the ground.
Murray Bodo 6-01-2007
As if it matters
- noticing the migrant workers—
- two to a wheelbarrow of concrete—
- mending the walls of the rich
- that exclude them
Clifford Rivera 4-01-2007
"The wind blows wherever it pleases." Word?
The scene is played out. We need some Eden!
Were Abba the DJ, He'd spin hymns
To slay.
Byron Rempel-Burkholder 3-01-2007
This afternoon, sir
we nailed God down
He's at the back of the property
He's going nowhere, sir
His feet are stuck
to a block of wood
we nailed God down
He's at the back of the property
He's going nowhere, sir
His feet are stuck
to a block of wood
It's comical, sir
Deb Baker 2-01-2007
I went there once,
to the place you’re imagining.
It was purple, with wild geraniums
under green-bright stars.
All the constellations spelled
words, like &
Michael Borich 1-01-2007
After the olive groves at Samothrace and fog
which billowed up from a green sea,
the rocky sheep path and bleating ewes,
wind and sun—there w
Kathleen Gunton 12-01-2006
She left
with her sack of stones
and one dying rose,
fragrant as Pinot Noir.
Amanda Rogers 7-01-2006
Your letter through the slot
slid to the floor and lay quite still
all day, until returning home from work
I seized and tore it open.
Newton Miner 6-01-2006
If ever you have wakened in the night—
the steep blue night, and waited for the tears—
then I must tell you—