Sorting by

×
Skip to main content
Category

Poetry

Poetry

God Likes Hair Salons

I can’t believe God lives outside the house of earth, beyond the lawn of stars, and the fenced-yard universe, out in the timeless cold, his raw breath, his radon brow, ridged, veiling nebular eyes, and his fingers, freezing as he writes down names in a book, for later. Of course God prefers the clamour of pubs, the company of welders and waitresses, the warm feel of a beech wood pool cue, the chatter on wharves and in hair salons, the…
Stephen T. Berg
September 1, 2014
Poetry

Poetry by Rose Postma

MAY/JUNE 2014: POETRY by Rose Postma The Apostle Peter Contemplates Logical Fallacies Somewhere in Northwest Iowa, a Silver Laced Wyandotte grips the gray-cracked wood of a fence post with his claws. He puffs his feathers in the black-cold, shakes his matched set of comb and wattles once, draws in breath to expel through the syrinx, and crows. The sun rises. Post hoc ergo propter hoc: the sun is not controlled by the cock, but it could be—the way a question…
Rose Postma
May 1, 2014
Poetry

Liturgy for March, Life, and Walking with Jesus

MARCH/APRIL 2014: POETRY by Barbara Crooker Liturgy for March So, here you come again, scratching the ground with your thin green nails. Go ahead, unbutton your purple robe, let us see clear into your golden heart. Let us believe in the resurrection of the earth. Forgive us now our unbelief. Life After "Starfish," by Eleanor Lerman This is what life does. It hits you like a stone through the window in the form of a phone call from your son-in-law…
Barbara Crooker
March 1, 2014
Poetry

Counter Narrative

by Rose Postma In the seven days it took Utnapishtim's hired craftsmen to build his reed-stitched boat, Noah must have wandered over late at night to check his competition out: examining mortise and tenon, measuring the span of the joists, wishing he had more help than three elderly sons. Did sweat salt Utnapishtim's eyes as he helped his men ache the craft over a road of poles, down to the still-smooth Euphrates, or was it just the first drops of…
Rose Postma
January 1, 2014
Poetry

Creation as an Almond Tree in Abraham Kuyper’s Orchard

JANUARY/FEBRUARY 2014: POETRY by Rose Postma The leaves, which are not leaves, are silverfish, which are not fish at all but wingless insects: translucent as uterine vellum, antennae always craving flight, exodus. Some sloughed by wind as finger nail clippings or dried skin cells to the floor, destined for the garbage can. The remnant is clinging to the gray-bark trunk, to the branches and the peach tree suckers growing below the grafting line, not clinging, grasping. Held, bound, always feeling…
Rose Postma
January 1, 2014