Poetry
Lazarus Box
Here, from my box of precious things: a handful of rose petals dry and wither-burnt; a smooth stick in the shape of a perfect “y;”
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Here, from my box of precious things: a handful of rose petals dry and wither-burnt; a smooth stick in the shape of a perfect “y;”
ITwelve years before his death, Père Jean BrébeufWrote out instructions to his fellow priestsAnd missionaries for their life
—after François Mauriac If you wish to resist the cross of Christ Don’t you dare dream up a casual affair. Follow Rimbaud. Pulled hair, soul
Editor’s note: In his last months dying of cancer, Timothy Murphy, a gay man who preceeded his partner in converting to Catholicism, poured out poetry.
(after hearing Morten Lauridsen’s Magnum Mysterium at a friend’s Wedding) The hush falls like soft-feathered snow, as light takes its leave. Clamoring thoughts, like tired children
Lord, you have searched me and have known my madness, a wilderness of visions and song. I welter in birthright riddles, my mother deranged,
wind myself up the way my buddy, Dave, taught me when I was fifteen, kick my leg toward high heaven land on it, pivot,
Through her heart, His sorrow sharing, all His bitter anguish bearing, now at length the sword has passed. I. As He Leaves the Palace of
He is buried in Calvary Cemetery in Woodside, Queens under a cross and his own words: “Peace O My Rebel Heart”. Claude McKay (1889-1948) was
Expectans Expectavi With expectation I have waited for the Lord, and he was attentive to me.— Psalm 39:2, Douay Rheims Bible Knowing you so near,
