Kari Gunter-Seymour: Conflagration
I hoped returning
would spark memories, fill her with light,
the way the heat of day warms the bones.
Derrick Z. Jackson: The People of the People’s Trail
I am the very accidental Black nature lover.
Michael Simms: Compost
fine white strands
of mycelium reach
into the cells of the woody stalk
and hard husk of sunflower
Video: Martha Redbone sings ‘Sleep Sleep Beauty Bright’ by William Blake
In an enchanting lyrical rendition of William Blake’s poem “Sleep Sleep Beauty Bright,” singer Martha Redbone blends rhythm, blues and soul with traditional Native American music.
Rev. John Dear: The clash between history and today’s movements — a conversation with Rev. James Lawson
Nonviolence is that quality that comes out of all the great world religions, the notion that the creative force of the universe is love.
Bhikshuni Ubbiri: A Voice Calling Back
84,000 daughters, all named Jiva, have died and been buried here in this boundless cemetery you call a world.
Melissa Chim: How do you spot a witch? This notorious 15th-century book gave instructions – and helped execute thousands of women
Women on the fringes of society, such as healers in Europe or the slave Tituba in Salem, were convenient scapegoats for society’s ills.
Daniel Burston: Remembering the Tree of Life Massacre
Robert Bowers was convinced that the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, which met regularly at the Tree of Life that day, was taking money from Jewish liberals to bring refugees in the United States to destroy America.
Leonore Wilson: Adder
beast,
lonely disciple —
what exegesis of the heart
did you prophesize
Michael Simms: Tree of Life
God, like a lazy cop,
Never seems to be around
When you need Him
Gail Langstroth | Running: Christchurch / Pittsburgh
—we know
hate-bullets halt
prayer, unleash grief/
death
Gary Fincke: The Double Negatives of the Living
I could talk
Two hours past midnight with
My father in the steelworker
Idiom of his city.
Tayve Neese: Prophecy of the Four-Legged
The horned things knew
the scent of blood usurping sweet hay
as the woman cracked and sang.
M.C. Benner Dixon: Whatever is Lovely
I remember being a teenager, leaning across my dresser towards its large mirror and studying my face, wondering if I was beautiful or not. It was an indecent hope, and I faithfully dashed it whenever I could.
