Late summer, early evening,
on the Starbucks patio,
corner of O and 12th.

College students are out
(they’re mostly still sober),
and I’m sipping a latte,
reading Kafka on the Shore.

my mother died on a Thursday
     a Thursday, just a Thursday
not a holiday or a holy day
     just a Thursday
when she died

Yesterday I did it;
sold the hat
I swiped from Jesus,
I took it and I sold it
right on eBay.
Quicker than I care to say,
I stole and I sold it.
I stole...
I think I stole it.
I grabbed it when I
somehow thought He would not see.

Yesterday I did it;
sold the hat
I swiped from Jesus,
I took it and I sold it
right on eBay.
Quicker than I care to say,
I stole and I sold it.
I stole...
I think I stole it.
I grabbed it when I
somehow thought He would not see.

a poem by Jeremy McWilliams

Despite all evidence to the contrary:

I am aware

That God is on high
-- Despite all the cries

of my flesh
of my kind --

That the touch of a tear
Is the touch of his finger.

I am aware

the sun also rises
on the wings of the stormy night
More glorious for the rain
she eats
and the shadows she frightens
into silence.

I am aware

that loneliness sings
and longs
and hopes
to multiply her enemy
into every human soul.

I am aware

Death is mortal
as a bee
with one sting and then himself
to die

While we, healed
go boldly on.

I am aware

I live in a shell
of temporary substance;
seed undying, bearing
fading grief.

I am aware

of the train in the tunnel.

I ride it,

racing to open fields -
seeing pricks of green and blue;

Beyond that,

I am unaware.

Copyright 2007 © Jeremy McWilliams

a poem by Jason Bowman

Hello. I'm a Caucasian American in a
World of majority minorities,
A feminist for life to save the seals,
A liberal theologian of new world thought
Too sophisticated for my religion
A Democratic pacifist for equal rights
On welfare for the environment,
A spiritualist against apartheid,
A non-denominational talk-show host
A Republican against whaling and taxes
For family values and dolphinless tuna,
A MADD gay rights activist fighting
To preserve the rainforest,
I walk in parades,
Hold up signs,
Shoot doctors,
And worship God.

Hi. I'm Jim.
I have an automobile shop.

Copyright 2007 © Jason Bowman

Jason Bowman is a high school teacher in the Dallas area.

a poem by Emily Bair

Gilded golden feathers float midst tolerance and hope
While the thunder rocks the building
So wretched
On and on while breaking laws of justice
While saying no and recalling calls of the day before last
Which whisper to our hearts that love's not dead
Just on hold for seven times two
Maybe that will be the fix like gorilla glue for this
And maybe that will hold just a bit longer until the end
If this long movie ever ends for four hours sitting, waiting
Four more would be death for all and
While we groaned against the edges of the table
Hoping for more calloused wood
To be our best friend and place to rest our head
While painting madly, swinging lucidly
Droopy eyes almost bleeding because we never sleep
While he pounds his guns on the machine
I never sleep
Quiet still, quiet still, I need this more than alimentos
When quakers quake from gleaming moon circles
Crusted the air with frost
We walk and walk and are never done
Because that void we tried to fill won't ever be filled
Alarmists pull their plugs and give up hope
As cold threatens to choke our throats
Pummeled on the head with a lead pipe
Where we walk today
We walk today
Paz na terra pra tudo mundo*
We walk
And hate
And loathe and leave
And then we fight it all over again
To stop to not to wait to love to hate to hope

*Peace on Earth for everyone

Copyright 2007 © Emily Bair

a poem by Gary Brown

In a casual fit
of remarkable sanity,
he methodically
cleansed his home of all
clocks and calendars,
radios, TVs and telephones,
ambushing
the
toxicity
of the ticking;
exactly what most people could,
but cannot
do.
Unaware of dates,
he simply
paid his bills as they arrived,
and
excepting turn of night and day
and the jerky pace
of season's crawl
around his home,
he left the burden of marking time
to others;
the disease
of daily news and sport
to their
neurotic caretakers;
the poisoned pablum
of the media
abandoned to his
deserving planetary inmates
and the helpless.
He read his books,
listened to his music,
expressed himself
artistically
in relationships
thoughtfully created,
intentionally
loved whomever he encountered
and
studied his presence

in the
Godscape
he'd been planted;
unaware
such innocent courage
lays staircase stones,
repairs the future,
twists the Dragon.

Copyright 2007 Gary Brown.

Whispers of my soul
Onto an empty canvas
Crowded with the images
Of things I shouldn't see

Cries of empty passion
Riddled with the bullet holes
Of well intentioned marksmen
Upon their stallions tall

Plain and simple melodies
Presenting on my heart's strings
Played within the bending frame
And calling out to me

Is this my life abundant?
Is pain the greatest teacher?
Are each of us not wiser
Than we admit to be?

I wait in darkness hoping
That light can breach the distance
Between the miles that pave the road
The longest path --
     Twelve inches

Copyright 2007 Madison Richards

From the author: "This poem is about the relatively short distance between our heart and our head and yet how long and arduous the path is -- translating "head knowledge" to "heart knowledge" is often the most difficult task there is."

Madison Richards a writer who seeks to explore the fullness of passion and freedom through all forms of art, but especially as it relates to the written word. Visit her website at madisonrichards.com.

I.
     As we are dust
     I being mere mote
     Am lifted in sunlight
     To rise and float
     Upon this gentle breath
     Of an unseen source
     Still shaking the darkness
     With still small voice

II.
     Rage again against these crumbling walls
     Drag ragged nails across mute rictus of face
     These waters surge to soon dry forgotten
     Shoulders repent in relentless embrace

III.
     Unspoiled Word of pure power
     Prepared and perfected for this very hour
     Pour out now again and forever
     Preserve us
     Complete us
     Preserve us complete

Copyright 2007 T.R. Sharp.