First time firing a shotgun – a kind of Sunday school poem
It’s Sunday and I’m reminded of the first time I fired a shotgun: single-barrel, old as a tree, and heavyas a weavers beam. The stock, cored-outand ...
Category: Poetics
Keyhole
Keyhole for my mother and father, now gone, and still here You know how light comes through a keyhole,how it fans out into a dark room,and how the dust motes da...
Discovered poetry – ‘No Memory of a Move’
One thing I love is combing through the little poetry section in Mandolin Books and finding, well, this: a book, published in the 80’s, the spine a bit ye...
In a darkened farm shed
The thing that pulls me toward atheism is the very thing that keeps me fully within faith. The daily experience of God’s absence, that utter silence, fans...