by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer And if we can’t save the world, and who says we can’t, then let us try anyway. Perhaps we have no superhuman powers— can’t see through buildings, can’t fly, can’t bend the bars of cages— but we have human powers— can listen, can stand up to, can stand up for, can…
Poem by John Reith as shared on Sunday, September 29, 2024
by Joe Uveges God and I have become like too giant fat people living in a tiny boat. We keep bumping into each other and laughing. —Hafiz (Daniel Ladinsky, trans.) I love this poem for its playfulness which is often something we forget about God: that He’s wild about us and has an awesome (otherworldly)…
A poem by Rob Geyer, Maundy Thursday 2022 prompted by an act of vandalism that occurred during the previous night, breaking a window in our sanctuary window in window out does our view shift depending on where we are, inside or out? does the rock that made a hole offer any way for us to…
by Sue Oringel, for Judith Krause Now that funky Central Avenue is dressed like a bride with lines of Bradford pear trees bursting in white and shad bushes peep from stands of trees showing just a bit of crinoline and magnolias fling their pink or white gloves on newly manicured lawns where redbuds unroll thin ropes…
Painting: Charles Porter (1847-1923) November by Susan E. Oringel With each shower of leaves, I cursed the spendthrift trees who tossed their coins away to any old wind. Mourned the bright riot, summer’s dahlias, red and phosphorescent suns. Now a kind of quiet comes, a slow, hard wind shivering sober branches, …