Mark Goad- Two Poems

Nativity

You must believe in your greatness

even if it is as little as admiring

a golden leaf for its glory.

There was room

in your heart for this at least, a quiet

nativity in you. 

Do you want something greater than

this?  How empty can you

afford to be?

In the inn

there was no room.

Who Will This Temple Cleanse?

If God’s temple, I –

and why should I such grace be given? –

better to get to cleaning house – and soon:

Miserly old wretches, lechers,

grumblers, the impious,  

vicious, vengeful,

calculating,

devils of every kind

have made a home under God’s roof.

Who, Lord, will drive them out?  Who

will overcome what little I have been?  Who

will this temple cleanse? 

Mark Goad is a poet now living in the Boston metro area (USA). Born in Ohio, he has lived and studied in Chicago, Geneva, Switzerland and Boston (with sojourns in Connecticut and rural Nebraska). Undergraduate and graduate studies have been completed in English Lit., German language, theology and philosophy.  His work has been published previously in Assisi, BAPQ, epiphany, bluepepper, Decanto, Big River Review, Extracts, Crannóg, Ayris, The Wayfarer, Contrary, Christian Century, Calvary Cross, Poetry Salzburg Review and other literary journals. 

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

What If Mary Had Chosen Otherwise

You see the oddest things at Christmastime in America. The bigger the city, the stranger the sights.

I was driving downtown to buy gifts for the family and enjoying bouquets of beautiful people bundled in big coats and colorful scarves. They were clustered on corners and shopping in good cheer amid petals of snow dancing in the sun. 

One of the people was a beautiful young lady who had stopped to take issue with an old woman in a shawl picketing Planned Parenthood. The old woman was picketing on a motor scooter designed for the elderly. She held a sign bigger than she was and kept motoring back and forth. She was as resolute and granite-faced as my Aunt Polly who had been renowned for protesting any injustice she had perceived. 

Saving the seals wherever human beings might be clubbing them to death had been very important to Aunt Polly. She left all of her money to an organization devoted to saving the seals.

On this day, however, the beautiful young lady who had taken issue with the old woman on the motor scooter was livid. She marched behind the scooter and yelled at the old woman, pounding her fist into her palm and screaming things I could not hear. The old woman appeared oblivious to the chaos in her wake. Maybe she was deaf, I thought, like my aunt. That can be an advantage when loud people disagree with you.

The letters on the sign were huge but I couldn't read them so I drove around the block and found a spot at the curb. It was then that I realized that the sign said, "What might have happened if Mary of Nazareth had been pro-choice?"

Now I understood why the young lady was ranting and raving and why the old woman kept motoring to and fro. At Christmastime in America people get excited, more so than usual.

When I got home I hid my packages and told my wife at supper what I had seen. I also told her that if Mary had chosen otherwise, I wouldn't have had to go shopping today.

That's obvious, she said. 

--------------------------

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Heather Browne- Two Poems

The Garden Beckons 

The garden beckons.

My Father is calling me.

But where is my voice?

I try to clear this cemented plug.

It’s been here much too long.

The cork that wants and needs to pop.

That’s its purpose really.

To hold in ‘til ready and then explode out its flow.

I just need to find my courage and my voice.

And so I sit.

And wait.

I am hidden here.

Behind the big fruited tree.

On the soft, gentle, quiet grass.

Still.

No breeze.

Not cold.

Not warm.

Just here.

Just me.

I question my stomach, but it isn’t hungry.

I question my spirit, but I think it’s asleep.

It’s dark here.

Not really scary.

But I see no light.

And I wonder and wait.

I feel the stillness in the air.

The wait on anticipation.

The wait for something.

On something.

The garden beckons,

My Father is calling me,

But where is my voice?

I try to make a sound

and all I do is

breathe

Let Me Come

Let me come.

Let me dance in your garden.

Where you’ll plant the seed of words you long to sprout.

Where your flowers bend and sway your scented songs.

Let me hear your gentle voice upon the wind.

Calling me.

Calling me in.

And I laugh,

That I waited one minute more.

One minute more than now.

Heather Browne is a faith-based psychotherapist and published poet in The Galway Review, The Artistic Muse, Leaves of Ink, and Deep Water Literary Journal and Calvary Cross.  She lives with her husband of 20 years and 2 amazing teens in So. Ca.

John H. Whiting- A Poem

Despite the Puritans

 

Roger Williams knew the way

To escape from Boston and Back Bay.

He left the colony under stress

to flee oppression and seek rest.

 

Once safe and far away,

He lived to preach another day

About the right of choice

To speak with a separate voice.

 

Williams allowed the many and the few

To sit in or avoid any pew.

He created the first condition

for American freedom of religion.

Linda M. Crate- Three Poems

tourniquet   

You forgave the world
so i must forgive
him
even though
my heart is aching,
even if my friends want to
run him over,
even if i'd rather punch
him in the face
i know you wouldn't
want them or for me to do
anything evil—
so i sit here bathed in these
angry soliloquies
praying for your guidance and
help because i'm
drowning in a tide of fury
that seems to flow and flow and
never ebb,
and i can't take this insanity anymore
Father; heal me,
because i can't heal myself—
all these tourniquets
soiled and bleeding strangle me
beneath their folds,
don't let them strangle all the
goodness out of me.



candle 

i don't want to be another snuffed
candle in a world of darkness
show me Your promises again, Father,
woeful humans forget the
shoulders
who lifted them
their Maker to whom they should praise
please forgive me for all the
stains of smoke i've left instead of
healing flames—
living for myself is too easy,
there's never going to
be a change unless this wounded world
is healed by Your hand
so give me Your grace and power
Father, Spirit, Son
let me help you heal this world
because your love is the only one that will
scorch this world with the beauty
betrayed it by all the apathy of forgetful humankind
Father please let me remember
all Your words;
that i can tell of Your power,
and bring Your words to light.



let me always love You
 
i want to love You forever
as You've always
loved me;
want to remember Your
name when the
world forgets
to be the candle of change
that blossoms
kindness into a world of apathy—
to lead others to the tabernacle to the
only love that saves,
and the universe that declares
God as their Maker
Jesus as their Savior
Holy Spirit as their Friend;
wish i could sing
Your songs loud enough that their
echo would be etched
in every mountain flower blowing in
the thread of every breath
breathing time
into the tapestry of the world—
so let me stop being
a broken
vase,
and let me lift my hands in Your
praise;
even when darkness descends shrouds
of pain to inflict it's
scars upon my heart.

Danny P. Barbare- A Poem

Found in Transit

A

measure

of

pride

to

have

faith

and

hope

as

if

to

be

found

a

gift

to

the

soul.

Danny P. Barbare has appeared in Doxa, Nebraska Christian College; Christianity and the Arts; Sister's Today; Assisi Online Journal, and numerous other small Christian online and print publication including Calvary Cross.