Poems For Ephesians

Ephesians— To the Glory

Someone wrote them for me.
But they are my letters.
If not hand-writ by me— written by another through me.

To the praise of the glory of his grace.——————————(Eph. 1:6,12,14)

A letter to believers—
that they would succumb to the grace I tell them of—
that they might know the habitation of God— its breadth,
length, depth, height.——————————————— ——–(Eph. 3:18)

Christ descending and ascending————————————(Eph. 4:9)
ordered with reason.

A pleading is there— Awake——————————————–(Eph. 5:14)
An admonition—
that in the dispensation of the fullness of times
he might gather together in one
all things in Christ,
both which are in heaven, and which are on earth.———–(Eph. 1:10)

Pray the utterance might be given—
that I may open my mouth boldly to make known
the mystery of the gospel———————————————–(Eph. 6:19)
to the praise of the glory of his grace.

Diane Glancy has written extensively as a poet, novelist, playwright, and nonfiction writer. Her most recent book is the poetry collection The Book of Bearings — the most-recent title in the Poiema Poetry Series from Cascade Books. As a poet she has published twenty titles — including both chapbooks and full-length collections. Glancy has received many awards including a Minnesota Book Award, an American Book Award, the Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry, and an Oklahoma Book Award.

Posted: 10 April 2019

Story of the One Man (Ephesians 2:11-19)

When I was a boy of thirteen
they milled about the gate
on the wall’s other side,
their eyes cast down
by our sidewise gaze
as we set out for home after worship,
Abba and me.

One boy my age dared look me in the eye.
His father had the lightened face of forgiven penitence
and his murmured prayer in uncouth Latin syllables
of caesars and soldiers
had the earnest ring of reality
I sometimes heard in my father’s.
But I knew those lawless and uncircumcised,
their longing notwithstanding,
had God’s love less.
You’ve no business here,
I felt like saying;
your unclean idol prayers will not be heard.
But I only scowled and spit.
He scuffed dung-flecked dust in our general direction
with the toe of his sandal.

No way that wall could fall,
Abba had said,
let alone be rebuilt in three days.

But at thirty, at night on my bed,
I knew.
Not all the blood of bulls and turtledoves
tithes
recited psalms
or prayers
would erase that writ.

That all seems like another, long-ago life.
We worship now in a Temple not made by hands
—One without a wall.
Gaius and I are forty.
In pale dawn
on the Day of Remembering the Rising,
we sit down side by side,
sip wine,
hand round hunks of holy bread
and sing.

Debbie Sawczak’s poems have appeared in Crux, Writual, the U.C. Review, McMaster Journal of Theology and Ministry, and in the anthology Adam, Eve, & the Riders of the Apocalypse. Debbie’s work as a bookseller and professional editor gives her additional pathways into the beloved and stimulating world of text. She and her husband live in Georgetown, Ontario; they have three adult sons. Her poetry has been selected for In A Strange Land: Introducing Ten Kingdom Poets (Poiema Poetry Series).

Posted: 03 April 2019

Walking in Love

(And) walk in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us… — Ephesians 5:1–2

What would you do to walk in Christ’s steps?
So many confront us on the way.
Knock on doors until someone lets you in.

What would you give up?
Shed anger like a snake sheds its skin.
Whatever remains will be a new song.

How far would you travel?
No one will toss palm leaves
where you walk to cushion your feet.

Who would you not love?
Be a fisherman casting a net
to find new friends.

Are you ready to prostrate yourself?
It is hard to walk in love.

Martin Willitts Jr is the author of 24 chapbooks and 14 full-length collections including The Uncertain Lover (Dos Madres Press, 2018), and Home Coming Celebration (FutureCycle Press, 2019). He has won such awards as the 2014 Dylan Thomas International Poetry Award, and the Stephen A. DiBiase Poetry Prize, 2018. He is a poetry editor for Comstock Review.

Posted: 27 March 2019

Detail of a Peacock

Nestling in the niche between the chapel’s crumbling
arches, his long blue neck plucks nibbles of tessera.

He wanders through mosaic parables like something risen
out of time, wearing fashion all wrong for Byzantium—

a jaunty tri-plume hat in an age of halos. You presume
at first this must have been a gold-leaf sermon contra

vanity, or like those tapestry-arrested unicorns, an
attempt to tame our lusts of flesh. His sumptuous blue

feathers with their knowing eyes seem destined
for a harem girl’s accessory, so what are they doing here?

What Augustine wrote at Carthage, though, unveils
the peacock’s changing reputation, that before

its current turn as vain pretender, or the empty suit,
the Church discovered peacock flesh does not decay.

So poke at any early Christian tomb and there
they preen, depictions of life that does not die, the

incorruption of brief bodies made eternal. How every
year a feather’s molt returns brighter and more beautiful.

This long-necked fellow settles into tessellation,
his plumage not quite all unfurled

so not to draw too much attention, but whispers that
he’s hiding here for now, a creature caught

in colored bits of glass, waiting till these ruins
are restored to make his move.

Jen Stewart Fueston has taught writing at the University of Colorado, Boulder, and in Hungary, Turkey, and Lithuania. “Detail of a Peacock,” which first appeared in The Cresset, draws on early church imagery, and echoes Ephesians 1:18, and 2:6 & 7. Her two chapbooks are: Visitations (2015) and Latch (2019, River Glass Books). Her poetry has been selected for In A Strange Land: Introducing Ten Kingdom Poets (Poiema Poetry Series).

Posted: 20 March 2019

Prison

They put Paul in a prison
———-And they clapped him in a chain;
The devil thought, “I’ve got him,
———-And he’ll never serve again”.
Did Paul become despondent
———-Or did he make a fuss?
He just sat and wrote the epistle
———-To the saints in Ephesus.

David C. Brown was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, and has lived there or in its neighbourhood most of his life. He has published privately through www.lulu.com, and on his blog, https://dcbverse.blogspot.com/ . He has been writing verse in varying styles for about fifty years now, while working as a minor civil servant, trusting it is to the glory of God. He is fond of stravaiging in the Scottish hills.

Posted: 13 March 2019

Sonnet XVI

Father, part of his double interest
Unto thy kingdom, thy Son gives to me,
His jointure in the knotty Trinity
He keeps, and gives to me his death’s conquest.
This Lamb, whose death, with life the world hath blessed,
Was from the world’s beginning slain, and he
Hath made two wills, which with the legacy
Of his and thy kingdom, do thy sons invest.
Yet such are thy laws, that men argue yet
Whether a man those statutes can fulfill;
None doth, but thy all-healing grace and Spirit
Revive again what law and letter kill.
Thy law’s abridgement, and thy last command
Is all but love; oh let that last will stand!

John Donne (1572—1631) is perhaps the most influential Christian poets of the 17 century. He was dean of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London for the last decade of his life. This poem — one of his Holy Sonnets — rejoices in the central Biblical truth, that God gives us all things; every spiritual blessing in Christ (Romans 8:32; Ephesians 1:3).

Posted: 06 March 2019

Dawning

He came into my home
Not as a storm
Beating open doors and shutters
But as gentle light
Filtering around door frames
———-Piercing cracks
———-Lighting thinning curtains
Illuminating my deep darkness
Somber shadows stabbed
With gentle light.

Where light touched
———-Boards became boughs
———-Lintels leaves
———-Cellar posts rooted the earth
New limbs reached for the sun
———-Upward, upward, upward.

The Tree of Life.

Peter Kazmaier of Mississauga, Ontario is primarily known as a novelist of Speculative Fiction – particularly as the author of The Halcyon Dislocation (2012) and its sequels. The third instalment in the cycle, Descent into Abaddon, is soon to appear in 2019. “Dawning” arose from his reading of Ephesians 3:14-19.

Posted: 27 February 2019

A Poem About the Body of Christ

My steps up the carpeted aisle
feel like another man’s steps.
The soft amen
when the gentle old lady holds up the host
feels like another man’s amen.
The tongue is mine, though.
I lay the host atop it.
What I mean is that didn’t have to be me.
It didn’t have to be me held and loved by my mother and father as a baby.
It didn’t have to be me held and loved by Cristina next to me in the pew.
But it was. It is.
I thank you, God. I don’t understand.

Cristina’s dark brown hair is tinged with red.
When I watch it shot through with sunlight
I can see the auburn glow.
As she sleeps I touch her beautiful, broad nose.
I lay the thoughts in my mind
on the bed beside us. They sing softly
for the breaking of the day.

Zach Czaia is a poet, editor, and playwright living and working in Chicago. His first collection of poetry, Saint Paul Lives Here (In Minnesota) was published in 2015 with Wipf & Stock. His poems have appeared in such places as The Other Journal and Sojourners. This poem is drawn from reflections upon Ephesians 4:1-16.

Posted: 20 February 2019

Voices Raised

—–Ephesians 2:19

No longer strangers and foreigners,
we’re fellow citizens with the saints—

native and naturalized jointly
inhabitants of the ethereal,

mercy in perpetuity—
a claim so strange it rewrites

all requirements of residency,
every psyche’s by-laws.

No longer partitioned off
by sin, by regret, by self-righteousness;

on reservations, on street corners;
behind walls; behind barbed wire;

behind preconceived Hallelujahs & Amens;
flat blessings and fat curses

of who, what, where, when, why
we are; behind and for all, yes

we sing acapella & instrumental,
harmony & melody;

we sing citizenship & pledge;
throughout the holy household,

with our off-key, shrill, and wobbly
human notes, by God we sing!

Marjorie Maddox is a professor of English at Loch Haven University in Pennsylvania, and director of the Creative Writing Program there. She is the author of several poetry collections — including most-recently True, False, None of the Above (Poiema Poetry Series) which is an Illumination Book Award Medalist.

Posted: 13 February 2019

Tychicus

“Tychicus, dear brother, will tell you everything. I am sending him.” Ephesians 6:21

I am the messenger
He remembers the disciples
The misty walk down Harbor Street
The baptisms by the river
“Grasp the width of the love”

Paul the Apostle
He knows by heart
The columns of the lecture hall
The miracle of handkerchief healing
“Grasp the length of the love”

To the saints
His closed eyes and chained arms
Still know the form of Artemis
The shouts from the theater
“Grasp the height of the love”

Grace and peace
He keeps in his heart
The farewell by the ship
The elders weeping and praying
“Grasp the depth of the love”

I am the messenger
Paul the apostle
To the saints
Grace and peace
“Grasp and know the love to be filled to fullness”

Jean Schreur of Hudsonville, Michigan, enjoys writing about Biblical characters and places. Several poems were published in the recent anthology Adam, Eve, and the Riders of the Apocalypse (Poiema Poetry Series). She is a retired nurse and lives with her husband on the family celery farm.

Posted: 06 February 2019

Dirty Jeans on a Kid in Ephesus

As a college student, did you learn to do laundry
before you left home?

As a college student did you realize you’d need
a roll of quarters to get the job done?

But quarters are hard to come by, so
jeans are worn two, three, or a pressing four times.

And by the fifth, going home is a better option
than walking around smelling like ramen

Spilled, stirred with sweat from your pick up
basketball game, where you ripped a hole

In the knee and bled a little. As a college student
did you forget that there are people who

Really do want to help you succeed; who
want to help sew those holes in your

Armor; bandage you;
Feed you some meat and potatoes; and

Help you wash that laundry?
Just show up on Sunday and find out.

Bugg Davis is originally from Mississippi where she completed a degree in English with a concentration in Philosophy. She has been published in a number of literary journals in the Southern United States. Recently, she moved to Hamilton, Ontario, to pursue a degree in Business and Marketing and is working as a Barista.

Posted: 30 January 2019

Ephesians 4:30. Grieve Not the Holy Spirit, Etc.

And art thou grieved, sweet and sacred Dove,
—————When I am sour,
—————And cross thy love?
Grieved for me? the God of strength and power
—————Grieved for a worm, which when I tread,
—————I pass away and leave it dead?

Then weep mine eyes, the God of love doth grieve:
—————Weep foolish heart,
—————And weeping live:
For death is dry as dust. Yet if ye part,
—————End as the night, whose sable hue
—————Your sins express; melt into dew.

When saucy mirth shall knock or call at door,
—————Cry out, Get hence,
—————Or cry no more.
Almighty God doth grieve, he puts on sense:
—————I sin not to my grief alone,
—————But to my God’s too; he doth groan.

O take thy lute, and tune it to a strain,
—————Which may with thee
—————All day complain.
There can no discord but in ceasing be.
—————Marbles can weep; and surely strings
—————More bowels have, than such hard things.

Lord, I adjudge myself to tears and grief,
—————Ev’n endless tears
—————Without relief.
If a clear spring for me no time forbears,
—————But runs, although I be not dry;
—————I am no Crystal, what shall I?

Yet if I wail not still, since still to wail
—————Nature denies;
—————And flesh would fail,
If my deserts were masters of mine eyes:
—————Lord, pardon, for thy son makes good
—————My want of tears with store of blood.

George Herbert (1593—1633) is famous for his devotional poetry which was posthumously published in his book The Temple. He served as an Anglican Priest, rector of the small parish of St Andrews Church, Lower Bemerton, Salisbury. In 1632 he also wrote A Priest to the Temple, which expresses his ideals of what a pastor should be.

Posted: 23 January 2019

The Unvoiceable Ever

Ephesians 2: 3-7

Mercy, please note
—every ragged corona
——our prayers generate: the lone
—blue eye of a pilot light,
the bonfire crowning a hill.

Help us welcome the kindly
—eclipse and crumble of ego,
——knowing the planet of self
—winks out, only
to rally. On again. Off . . .

a pulse like the tide,
—prone to turn, the stoic
——glacier, called to calve—
—each tipping point seen, loved,
unvoiceably nudged.

Amid the long seam of night
—our desires are rogue stars,
——riddled with black holes,
—laden with dark matter,
still unexplained.

O Mercy with colored dust,
—re-belt us, all our hopes
——fixed anew, within your realm
—where nothing is lost,
but all is covered.

Laurie Klein of Deer Park, Washington, is the author of the poetry collection Where The Sky Opens (2015, Poiema Poetry Series). She calls herself, “a contemplative writer, musician and artist, who helps distracted, heart-weary people refocus on God in creative ways that spark hope and wholeness.”

Posted: 16 January 2019

To Do More Than Hide

Ephesians 4:24

They
Made coverings of leaves
To sheath the bloody weapons they made of their bodies
The garments hardly holding
To soft skin
Scraped ‘til red
Ashamed of the defiled image they now carried in their carcasses
Unable to cover it
They hide
Their father comes and finds
And covers their skin in skin
And they begin
To be able to do more than hide
Seed of Eve

Second Adam
Comes to me while I cower
While naked
Pathetically making insufficient coverings
And he hands me my new self
Made of himself
And I put him on like wedding white
And I am made able
To do more than hide

David J. Busuttil lives with his loving wife Katie in Hornby, Ontario. He won the 2017 In The Beginning Award from The Word Guild. His poetry regularly appears in the magazines Love Is Moving and Ekstasis. David is active in poetry performances in the Greater Toronto Area. His original play Within a Play launched at Georgetown Little Theatre in June of 2018.

Posted: 09 January 2019

Epistle to the Ostensible Church

Isaak, latecomer to the way, sometime
schmoozer among the diverse and sundry
heretics, and admittedly a little judge-y,
a little cranky concerning the ubiquitous,
blithe, and widespread ignorance unduly
tolerated among slacker Xians whose glib
disinterest in the actual fullness of their
own inheritance leaves me blinking, open
mouthed—and increasingly cranky—as each
week seems to bring yet another earnest
attempt to reinvent the wheel. I write
to all y’all who labor in your separate
enclaves to puzzle out why your long-pared
faith so seldom satisfies the enormity
of your God-obsessive hunger. Peace.

That we are all of us adopted and appallingly
co-opted into the holiness of Jesus is a simple
given, and a certainty. So relax. His good
pleasure will surely accommodate at some
future end of time our patent sloth and habitual
dim wittedness. Meantime, have a stretch.
The faith you hold is not so much a grip
of propositions—nor even, nor especially
that queer array of anxious propositions you
have preferred to what the fathers taught; such
a paring keeps the body blind, and deaf, more
than a little dumb. A far more efficacious grip
would be the one that gathers at the supper
of the Body and the Blood. The cup is not
so much a good idea, but is your living portion
poured into your hungry gut, the animating
spirit joined unto an elemental, and a bright
reconstitution, joining your sad persons
to the joy investing all and everything
with theanthropic agency. Remember
to love one another, and please forgive
your cranky Isaak, whose love for you
may yet prove—please God—incorruptible.

Scott Cairns is the author of eight poetry collections, including: Slow Pilgrim: The Collected Poems (2015, Paraclete Press). He is Professor of Poetry and Director of the MFA in Creative Writing at Seattle Pacific University. His poems have appeared in The Atlantic, Poetry, and The McMaster Review of Theology and Ministry.

Posted: 02 January 2019

God’s Lavishness

the unexpected snow
clusters weighting
the small evergreen branches
like multiple hands extended, pressed
organ keyboards, Bach Cantatas—
with orchestra, choir, rich-voiced
soloists—a triplesauce on an entrée in a French
restaurant on play-full
Broadway, local bookstores,
cafes, all manner
of things—like melons;
the return of health,
a friend’s assisting
lepers in Uganda, the churches’ gathered
shoe boxes of gifts delivered
to children around the world,
children themselves, parents’ love, the iconic
snow-covered car in the driveway—
and she, of all days, minus a brush—
mysteriously cleaned off,
a day’s dawn,
a birth in dark Bethlehem,
sheep afoot on a hillside, their tangled
wool, Angel voice upon voice,
the soft arrival
of gold, myrrh, and frankincense,
the Christ Child in a makeshift cradle
asleep in his own Bright Nursery—
Grace.

Sandra Duguid is the author of Pails Scrubbed Silver (2013, North Star Press). Her poems have also appeared in the recent anthology Adam, Eve, & the Riders of the Apocalypse (Poiema Poetry Series). She and her husband live in New Jersey. This poem is drawn from several passages, including Ephesians 1:7-10.

Posted: 26 December 2018

Daily Grace

Theologically and philosophically
I rejoice in my salvation. But,
practically speaking,
I am carried
by little salvations
that buffer my bumps
and colour my days…
offer of a lift in driving rain,
patch of shade in smothering sun,
a ticket for Handel’s Messiah, reminder
of a bountiful gift that gives anew,
groceries on sale when I need them,
sunset display, exuberant from my window
is subdued the next street over, my private showing,
the extra dimension of a thin place after
a long time of walking by faith alone,
flat back tire in my driveway, not on the highway,
words of a Celtic prayer make
translucent and malleable
the granite wall of my cave,
comfort of flame
on a bitter winter night.

Ears to hear,
eyes to see,
a heart to receive
and give
love.

Bonnie Beldan-Thomson of Pickering, Ontario, wrote this poem in response to the opening verses of Ephesians. She is part of Adonai Creative Arts, through Forest Brook Community Church, where she helps facilitate The Writing Room — a place of spiritual care and creativity. She received the E.J. Pratt Medal in Poetry from the University of Toronto.

Posted: 19 December 2018

My Father’s Place

Forgive me if I behave as if I’ve lived
somewhere else, was someone else.
I was
an orphan at the gate, waiting, wondering
until he came and chose this unlikely child
gave me a new name, gave me gifts in profusion:
hope to hold, peace to pass on, grace to grow
See this signature?
It’s his insignia, inheritance guaranteed.

So now I live here, where largesse is norm
where rooms open into other rooms,
where colours celebrate shame’s downfall
and hues of blue blanket grey:
indigo, cobalt, azure
reassure,
a palette of reds speaks bold words:
scarlet, crimson, carmine,
all call, “No fear!”

Yet, l do confess,
love like this frightens me.
How difficult to fathom its dimensions:
the length, the breath, the depth, the height,
it takes a lifetime to fill a fatherless heart
full,
to displace doubts, to replace the broken seal.
How fortunate that we have forever…

Vilma Blenman has published a poetry chapbook First Flight, plus stories and poems in the Canadian Hot Apple Cider anthology series. She lives with her family in Pickering, Ontario. “My Father’s Place” is influenced by Ephesians 3:18, but also Ephesians 1:13 and 14.

Posted: 12 December 2018

 Sundown

Ephesians 4:26

In pre-marriage counseling they told us to never
let the sun go down on our anger.
Whimsy notwithstanding,

the warning seemed quaint
since electricity has deemed our clocks
the arbiters of time,

and sailors now watch weather.com,
having jettisoned their nursery rhymes
about red skies.

But in the wake of our disagreement,
with the sky so overcast
(I circled the same point;

turning, you drifted off),
I just stared into the clouded night, wondering
how we might navigate to common ground.

Ryan Apple is a Music Professor at Great Lakes Christian College in Lansing, Michigan — where he and his wife live with their six children. His guitar music is available at: https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/go/606553867. His poetry has appeared in the anthology Adam, Eve, & the Riders of the Apocalypse (2017, Cascade Books).

Posted: 05 December 2018

The Architecture of Prayer

I hardly recall now the place, the view:
stars burning light years off
like tongues of fire snapping softly
in a vacant house,
winter branches with their hieroglyphs,
birds clenched on twigs like frozen buds—
all that language of the dispossessed.

I know I’d picked up fuzzy suns
of peaches, late glowing apples
and shelved them in my darkest closet—
seasoned proofs, potential food for afterthought?
And long before of course
I hunted out the spring,
stored earliest recorded light,
his words, which I drew on
interceding for family or friends,
but not too often, pulling back
from draining the source
with appeals for anything specific or routine . . .

until I stumbled on a promise
hidden there boldly in plain sight:
exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or think.
Extravagantly upsized, straining
our reasonable dimensions of space and time?

Not according to the blueprint of the mystery.
Translated by the working hand,
it clearly says our house is,
its foundation laid,
saving us from lostness.
Windows, though yet to be set,
are framed and open for intimate speech,
silent music between ear and Ear.

Mary Willis lives in London, Ontario. Her poems have appeared in Canadian Literature and other journals and anthologies. She has also published three chapbooks through Fiddlehead Poetry Books, including: Earth’s Only Light. “The Architecture of Prayer” is built on Ephesians 3:20.

Posted: 28 November 2018

Sonnet From The Ephesians

——-Ephesians 1:16

I do not cease to give thanks, especially in November
even as we lose an hour of light, drawing
the curtains at 4:30 to keep out the cold. To remember
you are dust seems appropriate now. Crows are cawing

black elegies in the bare trees. Just past the Day of the Dead,
and I’m thankful for every friend who has blessed
my life, gold coins in a wooden chest. Who said
no man is an island? We’re all peninsulas, I guess,

joined to the mainland, part of the shore. We’re the sticks
in the bundle that can’t be broken. Even if
it doesn’t seem that way, the bickering of politics,
the blather on the nightly news. Maybe we speak in hieroglyphs,
unclear, always missing the mark? So let me be plain.
I’m grateful for the days of sun. I’m grateful for the rain.

Barbara Crooker is the author of seven poetry collections. Her eighth, The Book of Kells, will appear from the Poiema Poetry Series early in 2019. She and her husband live in Fogelsville, Pennsylvania. Her poems have been featured many times on The Writer’s Almanac as read by Garrison Keillor.

Posted: 21 November 2018

Adoption

Not very many know what it’s like
to be weightless, cut off from a home,
any home of familiar welcoming,
like Cheers, like the court of the Sanhedrin,
like a synagogue in any Roman outpost,
and perhaps even with the brothers of the Way
who cannot let go of the finality
of the dying cries of Stephen.

Not many know what it’s like
to be weightless, grasping for a foothold
of decency and grace, in a mosh pit of gods
and goddesses nastily scrambling about
round and round on the circumference
of perhaps a Greek vase, or a sad Roman copy
which can’t really hide the humanness
of engineered bullying from Rome.

Not many know what it’s like
to be weightless, hung out in space
hung between heaven and earth, sold out
by friends and foes, orphaned by everything
that fathered you into this world
save perhaps for wounds and a thorn
now woven into certificates of adoption
for children of immeasurable belonging.

For Mark

James Tughan has been called “one of the world’s foremost pastel artists.” He has served on the faculty of Tyndale University, Redeemer University, and Sheridan College. Even so, Tughan has immersed himself in course work at McMaster Divinity College. One of the many influences on his poem “Adoption” is Ephesians 1:5.

Posted: 14 November 2018

The Misuse of Scripture

——-So then, putting away falsehood, let all of us speak the
——-truth to our neighbors,
——-for we are members of one another.
——-–Ephesians 4:25

The truth is, neighbor, your lawn is looking rather shabby.
(I tell you this in a spirit of Christian kindness.)
And yesterday you seemed a little crabby:
(Love may be blind, but that’s different than blindness.)

So, let us shun falsehood and speak the truth:
I see your sins and…Joshua judges Ruth.
I stand firm in faith and shall not be budged.
And if you judge me…ye shall be judged.

Daniel Klawitter of Denver, Colorado has published three full-length poetry collections – most recently Quiet Insurrections (2018, White Violet Press). His children’s poetry chapbook Put On Your Silly Pants received an honourable mention in the 2017 Dragonfly Book Awards for Children’s Poetry.

Posted: 07 November 2018

Ephesus

——-To everyone who conquers
——-I will give permission to eat from the tree of life
——-that is in the paradise of God. Rev.2:7.

Now as then we are dismayed when business falters,
baffled when rains fail,
alarmed when another riot erupts in our city.

Now as then we have among us the hungry. Also
the scrupulous. We have those
who regularly bow and bend and those who don’t.

We know a house must have a sure foundation,
a solid cornerstone. We know, though we keep building them,
dividing walls must fall. How else

can the stranger and the alien enter? We do not know
why the lovely bird of peace nests over there
while here at home the vultures flap their hostile wings.

Now as then noise streams from the market place,
applause from the crowded theatre.
The hungry lions roar. On quiet evenings

you can hear, above the drone of time,
the whisper of leaves
on the tree of life.

Sarah Klassen is a Winnipeg-based writer who’s won numerous awards, including The Canadian Authors Association Award for Poetry for her collection A Curious Beatitude. Her eighth and most-recent collection is Monstrance (2012, Turnstone Press). Her poems have appeared in many journals, including The McMaster Journal of Theology & Ministry.

Posted: 31 October 2018

The Ordering of Time

The road to Ephesus was flat and open-aired,
a lined mixture of blue and earth, mounded cairns
rising from the open fields, like bee-hives a man

could walk into and disappear. And why travel there
but for a heritage of history? Native people still
tilling the biblical earth, airing their laundry on lines,

the empty forms of their bodies waving in air.
Land by itself always appears primitive
until we encounter on the threaded paths there

a rise of buildings, an ordering of the times
when they are complete. We pilgrimage to Ephesus
to witness the past and measure the present.

For a place to sense the saints of perseverance,
we leave our too-civilised countries to experience
a land, a field, a time in its journey. We leave our lives

and go to read the earth, to remember any small heritage
of who came before us and who long brought us here.
The dusty road to Ephesus was a boat, a bus,

and walking, was blue hours of water and earth,
was winding and tiring, but worth the beautiful ruins,
a true word, a lasting witness, travel the first-fruit

of our heritage. In the ancient shell of Ephesus,
beyond the resting amphitheater, the cell of Saint Paul,
the best building standing remains the whitened library.

Nicholas Samaras is the author of two poetry collections – Hands of the Saddlemaker, which won the Yale Series of Younger Poets Award, and the extensive American Psalm, World Psalm (2014, Ashland Poetry Press) which contains 150 poems to emulate the Biblical psalms. His poetry also appears in The Turning Aside: The Kingdom Poets Book of Contemporary Christian Poetry. He lives with his family in West Nyack, New York.

Posted: 24 October 2018

He Also Descended

On Albrecht Dürer’s woodcut, Christ Descending into Hell, from Ephesians 4

Dürer’s gouge flings gates from hinges,
stretches a lean arm to snap prisoners’ chains.
He tastes pearwood dust,
cuts a body, blood trickled out
and stilled on Skull Hill,
a living man whose standard rides
the blaze from demon horns.

We shuffle past the woodcut,
hear a flapping overhead
and smell smoke
but miss the gates
wide open
the throng rushing out.

Laurel Eshelman of Elizabeth, Illinois (population 700) works a few blocks from home with her husband at Eshelman Pottery. Her chapbook, The Red Mercy, was a semifinalist in the 2014 Palettes and Quills Chapbook Contest. She was one of the participants in D.S. Martin’s festival circle group at the Festival of Faith & Writing 2018, in Grand Rapids.

Posted: 17 October 2018

Seating Plan

first day of school…
———–the bell rings,
thirty children
———–rummage
to find their seats,
determined by the teacher’s
———–seating plan

the twinkling of an eye.
the trumpet sounds!

and there,
engraved by lightning laser
on a clear white stone,
I find my name
and gladly take my seat
among the galaxies.

Neil Paul – of Caledonia, Ontario – is a retired English teacher who has been taking courses at McMaster Divinity College. I met him last year in Gus Konkel’s insightful class on the Psalms. He has self-published two books of verse. This poem was inspired by Ephesians 2:6.

Posted: 10 October 2018

A Prisoner of Christ

for Father Donald Francis Derivaux
A Gethsemane monk, psalming
an honorarium of prayer, work, plainsong,
he interceded for those who fed
on empty words from the kingdom of air.

He shared raven’s bread with Merton
and letters brined with tears over
black souls shorn of dignity.
But the sounds of Trappist silence
contained too many echoes for him.

He longed for the life away
anchored in the most quiet dwelling–himself—
moment by moment seeking eternity;
he lived alone with the Alone

until he was called to be a prisoner of Christ
in a different kind of hermitage
salving souls in cells at Parchman Penitentiary
teaching unschooled monks in striped habits
to sigh the name of Jesus.

Philip C. Kolin is the Distinguished Professor of English (Emeritus) at the University of Southern Mississippi. The title of this poem alludes to Paul’s reference to himself as the prisoner of (or for) Christ (Eph. 3:1 and 4:1). This poem will be included in Kolin’s forthcoming poetry collection Reaching Forever (Poiema Poetry Series) which is edited by D.S. Martin.

Posted: 03 October 2018

Approach With Boldness

                        —Yellowstone National Park
                        —Eph. 3:12

We creak on boardwalks above geothermal pools—
Black Opal, Morning Glory, Emerald Spring.
Clear and bright as cups of Easter dye,
they sputter and hiss to remind us that we stand
atop a caldera heaving molten rock.

Each path begins with the illustrated warning:
a boy in a baseball cap breaks through the surface,
parboiling his feet. I hear the story about the 9-year-old
who lost himself in the steam and plunged into Crested Pool.
They recovered just eight pounds of his body.

Or the man who swan-dived into Celestine Pool
after a yelping dog, emerging with blanched irises.
That was dumb, he mumbled for his last words,
skin peeling in sheets. Thousands of years ago
the first hunter to wander into this basin

must have thought he discovered a second sky
breaking through the ground, a miracle of sorts,
if he knew about those, radiating in the snow.
He laughed, bent his face over the rising steam,
and thought nothing of reaching in.

This poem by Tania Runyan is from her poetry collection Second Sky (2013, Poiema Poetry Series), which is a book of poems inspired by the life and writings of the apostle Paul. Her new collection What Will Soon Take Place (2017, Paraclete Press) is inspired by the Book of Revelation. Her poems are also included in the anthology The Turning Aside: The Kingdom Poets Book of Contemporary Christian Poetry. She and her family live in northern Illinois.

Posted: 26 September 2018