Riopelle exhibit of bronzes and canvaseshidden for months behind a digitalinterface; pixelated representationslonging for in-person encounter. Surprise government opening of museumswith limited time slots available.Join a cohort of the freewalking those familiar, high-ceilinged rooms. Art gallery visit, not as imagined.Running late with a warning in mind:“Arrive 15 minutes earlyor lose your visit.” Rush through revolving doors andup the…
COVID compounds our losses. In this poem, Jennie narrates to us her own experience of the unthinkable: losing access to her church when she needed it most. We are grateful to Jennie for sharing this intimate, candid journey with the readers of CC. I.When you are raisedunder an onion dome of a roof,where icons watch…
It is the forsakenness of it all. Long before that piercing cry,Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani,long before that God-forsakenness on the cross,Jesus is forsaken on the Via Dolorosa. Here on that road of sorrow,he is devastatingly alone. No one leading him out.No jeering crowds.No virus-carrying spittle.No bloodthirsty mobs.No mocking soldiers.No politicians inciting a riot.No one washing…
thunder/echoes in the soul/black with rain/clouds spurt rivers/stark behind sun-glowed poplars…
Today laid out in puzzlepieces beneath my fingers;pale Milky Way across two hemispheres,Little Dipper Little Bearand Polariswith Pleiades and Orion to the right.…..Reminded with pleasure of Job referencing…..these constellations by name,…..and God,…..questioning him 30 chapters later. Mars in a chart in the top left-hand cornerwith no sign of the successful arrivalof the rover Perseverance.Builders so…
Now it’s February. We can’t forget it’s the month to celebrate Black History (I highly recommend I. Wilkeson’s book The Warmth of Other Suns), and there are some who like to acknowledge St. Valentine on February 14. Yet, I must admit, I’m finding it hard to write about non-COVID-19 things. After almost one year, this…
This poem takes its shape from Psalm 23, a chiasm.
We were delighted to feature Caitlin Ambery’s painting, “Christmas at the Old Quick Church” alongside Malcolm Guite’s poem “Christmas on the Edge” in our 2019 Christmas print issue. Cathy Smith muses on the painting, “Christmas at the Old Quick Church”: Here’s a church at the edge. Nothing around it, no other buildings. All by itself…
Sailors are believers; believers, sailors.Who else says,I need the breath of Godto reach my destination?Few souls are wind-driven in thisautomated, self-propelling society.Who even notices the wind?Do occupants of air-conditionedhouses, offices, cars,accustomed to ignoringthe soothing gesture of a cool breeze,understand the gentle stirringsof a Holy Comforter?Only those who favourthe fan of Godtrim the sail,straining to catch…
Lord, in case You haven’t noticed, things are falling apart down here. Of course, I know You’re omniscient, so I realize that You are aware, but I wonder if You’re really paying attention, Lord. This corona virus is plaguing the entire globe, and especially ravaging the poor, vulnerable and minorities, who for so long have already been suffering so much pain and injustice.
I know it. He knows it. I am here only to serve one teriyaki chicken on steamed rice extra broccoli extra carrots, your meal is ready sir, you’re welcome. I may be the only human he speaks with face to face this week, this month.
Loving God, in whom is heaven, we’re thankful for the people we meet when we venture forth from our homes, in these pandemic days: the mother with her two young kids, making their own fun in the grass beside the playground, where the climbing structures are wrapped in yellow caution tape, and off limits; the widower with his next door neighbour friend, and two cups of take-out coffee from McDonalds, sitting two picnic tables, and two metres, across from each other in the park, kibitzing;
|
Uploaded
Failed
|
 |
