I Know from My Bed Michael Lee Johnson Sometimes I feel like a sad sack a worn out old man with clown facial wrinkles I know when I reect stare out my window at the snow falling from my bed my back to yours reecting on my pain ignoring yours I isolate your love lose your touch to another forgetting it is our bed not mine that I lie in
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Personal Savior Kenneth P. Gurney Ellie painted Jesus up on the cross: no beard, two bared breasts and a vagina. ere was no crown of thorns, only the bruises consistent with coroners’ reports on rape victims. In her diary she wrote how Joseph tried to save his little girl and died spit upon a centurion’s sword.
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e Journey Rime of Faith Daniel Wilcox From the feeding trough night, Starred Light Kept silent over a carpenter’s inn-less infant, In the temple, at twelve away from parents, Yeshu asked Precepts of the biblical scribes. He followed the Baptist into Jordan’s River, Stepped from the turning waters changed; ough declared the anointed one, Yeshu Wept for the obstinate of flesh and heart, And with mercy for the lost, he Swept from ritual habit the experts’ prided judgment. Executed for his compassioned ways, Yeshu Slept in caved dust, a gauze-wrapped corpse. Unknown to scorners, on the third day, this Son of Man Leapt transcendent from dead death; Presented to all, Yeshu, the worshiped one, Adept ever-dwelling love forever.
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Poem For My Sister Marie J.L. Scott e loneliness of today makes me miss you, and our yesterdays. Most of the time I stay busy enough to keep it at bay— the wishing we were closer and wondering what you’re thinking about and if you miss me too— but tonight I’ll let it stay a while, because it reminds me that I love you, sister and tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow let’s talk, ok? Let’s say what we’re thinking and cry if we need to. Let’s laugh at the silly things and dream up the big things. Tomorrow let’s remember yesterday, when we used to play like there was no tomorrow, when we would watch the snow fall from our bedroom window in peace and wonder. Let’s cherish those good times and take our claims in heaven above, where we’ll live together like best friends again, and tomorrow will never end… Until then, let’s give Jesus our all wherever we are, and call just to say hello, and kiss our children, because we know that their moments as little sisters and brothers are fleeting, flying fast.
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And let’s make the most of even our loneliest todays.
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Submission Sharyl Collin Fog hugs the waters just off the shore, the surf hushed, like the sadness that stalks me on this early morning walk. I watch small groups of seagulls shuffle from their hammocks of sand to restore pecking order around water fountains and trash cans. I’ve prayed for understanding, and listen for an answer when I notice the writhing gull, his guts pushing up through his throat, tongue sticking out like a thorn. Broken hearted, I run to the lifeguard station, knowing that my help can only hasten his death. Break my heart, Lord, if this is your will. I will wait humble, my broken heart held dear within your loving hands, better there guided by your unending love, your almighty omnipotence, than from between these fragile, fleeting ribs.
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For Jakow Tratenberg Seamus Sweeney
e embers of bitterness did not burn in you. e machinery of mathematics did not cease in you. e days of hell did not rob you of all light. e nights of death did not steal from you all life. e mind, multiplied, multiplies. All around the world, little children, little people, images of those who were extinguished in the camps, amaze their elders, delight their parents, admonish our laziness. Wonder-children, minds like mercury, calculating with quicksilver. Someone in the paper writes in a clear and debunking tone Of our sentimental illusions and fond fears. e mind has Nothing to fear from technology, he write, citing the evidence; e pocket calculator did not destroy arithemetrical thinking But enlivened it. us saith the evidence. I, though, think of Trachtenberg in the camp Retreating into a palace of calculation, I think of his children, on stages, in schools, All around the world, I think of it all and I think of what we have lost.
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Moments Lanette Kissel Our lives here are but a moment, no more than the blink of an eye. But God has promised us a future in an eternity as vast as the sky. Our lives are simply a series of moments, of seconds and minutes, of hours and days, with time to study the wisdom in His Word, time we can ponder the wonder of His ways. We have to choose to live in the moment, never knowing what the next minute may bring, a phone call with news of a joyous event, or a report of deadly disaster’s sting. We can choose how we’ll spend our moments, and allow fear and doubt to consume our days. Or we can choose to focus on our loving Father and joyfully sing of His glory and praise.
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Waiting on the World to Change Annie Dennis e sidewalk is grey with pain and ugliness. Actions colder than the breeze, blown through is world. Sin planted like trash lingers in the streets Waiting for someone else to pick it up. Waiting for someone to change this world when A single word can change it all. To say “He loves you” to the one Who feels alone. To pray a blessing over the one who Wounds. Waiting on someone else doesn’t Heal a heart or spread love When words are all that’s le, let them be used To fix brokenness and stop pain Rather than to cause it.
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A Trinity of Paintings Annie Dennis It’s beautiful how the sky changes, A canvas, filled with Original pictures. Clouds on baby blue, Screaming His Love for us. At night, others assume darkness In a charcoaled sky, missing the Splashes of golden sparkles displayed. Above the ocean, He paints a sunset With fuchsia, azure, and Bittersweet coral. ey look at these enchanting paintings But miss His face permanently Sketched into the sky.
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no body’s perfect linda crate the world is full of apathy, but so is the church; everyone forgets that we’re all humans spinning on the axis of the same universe with the same flaws; there are adulterers like david, there are nymphos like solomon, there are demanding evil women like jezebel wrapped in their purple gauze, some days are better than others some churches are better than others; some speak the word of God and unite, others talk in whispers of the world and divide and corrupt; God is not a concept you can throw into a church, He is a way of life, a promise that you will try to save the soul he’s given you, to use that brain inside your skull to praise him and not all the other idols that encapsulate the world, even your friends in a balmy embrace; it’s a call to be different to recognize even when you sin you are not a finished product, you are weak; you are a man, but you can change and you can lead others into the light by being the best witness to God possible, or you can turn your back on the heavenly father and embrace the wily wills of the one that wants to destroy you, the beauty of it is you get to choose whether or not to be God’s child— it’s up to you whether you soul reaches heaven or not.
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Forgive Me, Father Lindy Ryan
Forgive me, Father for I have sinned. I have walked blind into the mouth of the Beast and he has swallowed me whole. I have lied, I have cheated, Stolen, robbed, and killed. I have been greedy and selďŹ sh, spiteful, and unforgiving. I have cursed You and persecuted Your people, for believing dierent than I. Forgive me, I have broken promises and fallen slave to impure thoughts. I have scorned those who trusted me, taken advantage of the grace given me, punished those who wronged me, and judged those I do not know. I have taken for granted - 12 -
Your creation, mocked it for its beauty, and tortured it for my gain. I have bitten my tongue rather than call out for You. My pride has overwhelmed me. Forgive me, Father, for I am lost.
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To My Friend Stephanie A. Simmons My dear friend, you have been foremost in my mind. I remember when your arms sheltered me in a crowded room. e memory is like nectar to my eager longing. My lovely friend, you unlocked secret doors to dreams I hid when lost love marred me. Your yes eases the pain of a life built on no. My changeable friend, you’re the essence of every wistful reverie. e sun rises on your lips and hair, and sets with promises too hard to keep. My last word to you caresses my lips like a sigh. My fickle friend, goodbye.
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Eve’s Temptation Leah Henning Polished deep burgundy Reveals mirrored image On smooth spotless skin. Delicious, beckoning, tempting; Snap moist with desire e rosy mantle—gone, Revealing sweet white flesh. e scent of honeyed juice lingers on Crimson skin, cut to bleed golden droplets Into a pool on the table. e Gala over.
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e End of the World Gale Acuff —to R. A. At Sunday School today I was gazing out the window when Miss Hooker called on me to lead the class in the Lord’s Prayer and I think she did it on purpose, to bring me back to reality, if that’s what God is—reality. I’m not sure but I said Yes ma’am and cleared my throat and rose and closed my eyes and bowed my head and took it from the top and sailed right through all the way to Amen, which I spoke of course but didn’t hear my voice or maybe lost it, Miss Hooker and my classmates shouting it out so that it almost scared the sin clean out of me. en Miss Hooker set us free, dismissed us that is, because only God can do that, set people free that is, if that’s reality, too. I guess it is if God is, real I mean. I’ve never seen Him, at least not directly. Miss Hooker says that He’s everywhere and created everything and there’s a little bit of Him in everything He created. Fair enough. I can see that. I guess I mean I can understand it, it makes good sense because at regular school when we draw and color and fingerpaint and make things out of Playdough and papier-mâché I can always tell mine from the other kids’ and our teacher can, too. But my work’s not perfect and God’s should be—how can He make an imperfect thing? I’d ask Miss Hooker but I already know what she’d say and she always takes God’s side anyway, not that I blame her, she is the teacher, and - 16 -
has red hair and green eyes and a million freckles so she’s perfect herself and proof that sometimes God can really nail it. No, she’d tell me that the world was aces ’til Adam and Eve fussed it all up when they blew off God in the Garden of Eden and ate the fruit of the forbidden tree and suddenly knew too much so God had to keep His word and make them leave the place and that’s the world we have now, full of sin, death, lies, broken promises, and hardships of all kinds. And then He flooded the earth and drowned all the sinners. Noah and his family and all the animals two-by-two started all over again but even that didn’t take, so even later, and I’m no good with dates, God sent His Son, Jesus, to be born of Mary and teach the people how to be decent and He worked a few miracles and then got in trouble with the authorities and died on the Cross as a sacrifice and whoever believes that Jesus is the Son of God and died so that people wouldn’t have to be really dead when they die will live in Heaven forever. So they took Him down from the Cross and stowed Him in a cave but on the third day He rose, which is a neat trick. I’d pay to see that. And the point is that it can happen to me, too, and not just crucifixion or death some other style but I mean rising from the dead. I’m not good with the details but when I die they’ll bury me and then my soul will leave my body and I’ll go to see God to be judged and if I’ve been good and believed all that about His Son then I can stay in Heaven but if not then Hell’s to be my home and that’s not good, because I’ll wish I was dead all over - 17 -
again and I already am, that’s how bad it is. It’s in the Bible somewhere, the explanation I mean. Or maybe my soul stays in my body until one day Jesus calls it up from the grave with all the other souls, like graduation or commencement or whatever it’s called. But wouldn’t it be easier for God just to make everything hunky dory by snapping His fingers, if He has them? It seems to me that He went to a lot of trouble to make a bad thing better, or is it really worse, when He alone of all others could have things perfect by hitting us with a wholesale miracle. Instead we’ve got to work out things His way. When I got home from Sunday School today Father asked me what I learned and Mother said that I look right grown up in a tie. ey don’t go to church themselves but sleep late and have barely risen when I get home, sitting at the kitchen table in their robes and having Sanka and Tareytons. I learned, I said to Father, that dying is the only way to live, I mean live forever. Oh, said Father—sorry I asked —and hid himself behind the sports pages. I think I get you, Mother said. That’s God for you. That’s Him all over. She lit her cigarette and inhaled and then exhaled. I thought of the Holy Ghost. Maybe that means I’m saved, saved from Heaven and Hell. It must be the end of the world.
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