A quarterly journal of ideas, art, and faith
Dappled Things
Shannon Berry
Then he looked up to heaven and groaned —Mark 7:34
I.
At the solitude of pinewood rooms
at the silence of photographs
the internal motions pause and quiver.
Words slide through sockets,
squeeze through cracks between hinges
press through the sieves of screens.
Letters burn like Autumn leaves
smoking out September. [Read more…]
Dappled Things
J.B. Toner
For Peg
We tire, and wither, and our souls grow old; The trillion miracles that swarm our sight No longer lend our hoary hearts delight— Bright kings enthroned, we weary of our gold. But oh, our Father is more young than we: A child who never tires of one glad tale, He calls an encore, lifely, without fail, And younger actors age-old lines do read. For every birth renews, redeems, the world— To startled eyes, just closed on Heaven's views, The dazzling panoramas are unfurled, With dawn-dew-dappled grace freshly imbued; And one child born to one good-hearted girl Can make the very earth and heavens new.
Dappled Things
Amos Johannes Hunt
Who then is this, whom even wind and sea
submit to for instruction, who shuts up
their elemental raging, interrupts
their wild destruction with authority?
What then is this authority, that made
us cross at night, without a stated cause,
without assurance that the thoughtless laws
of nature would not trump our brave crusade?
Where then is this crusade advancing to?
What fate can this most questionary man
be on his way to meeting in this poor
and questionable world? And once more, who,
and who, and who is this, who proves he can
sleep easily when death is at his door?
Dappled Things
Daniel Gibbons
I am a burning book, a book of flame:
pale letters glow on skin-thin ash
an instant as your hand crumbles cinders, same.
If a book burns in the forest, without reader or name,
Is it no book, a glob of marks?—In its pages stashed:
“I am a burning book, a book of flame!” [Read more…]
Dappled Things
Fr. Damien Ference
Much has been written about the dramatic shift that took place in Catholic education after the Second Vatican Council. The Baltimore Catechism was out and Buddy Christ was in. The memorization of basic foundational formulations of our faith such as the Ten Commandments, the Beatitudes and the Corporal Works of Mercy took a backseat to a new style of catechesis fueled by construction paper, paste, and pictures that were assembled into a collage about how Jesus made us feel. Sin was a topic we never heard much about, unless sin meant disobeying mom and dad. God was nice and we should be, too. Jesus had long hair, wore sandals, and ate organic food. The whole experience of Catholic education in the early 1980s can best be summed up by the title of the hymnal filled with songs by Carey Landry and his fellow St. Louis Jesuits (who gave us the hit “Great Things Happen When God Mixes with Us”): Hi God! [Read more…]
Dappled Things
Rosemarie Monge
The rain kissing my lips,
your fingers trace
every contour of my face,
perhaps to discover if you’re
meant to stay here
by my side,
if I’m meant to be led by you. [Read more…]
Dappled Things
Stephanie Mader
I’m zipping down Parker Avenue, cursing myself and wondering why I didn’t charge my cell phone last night. If I were a smart man, which I sometimes claim to be, I might’ve called Tessa and asked her to sneak my charger over during lunch. Only, Mr. Boss-man was hovering around my desk all day. I could see his reflection in my computer screen. It’s like he knows. They were supposed to call today. [Read more…]
Dappled Things
Daniel Gibbons
October, teach me bright failing In the last orange blossoms of my squashes, In the flip of a woodpecker’s wing, As a shower of crimson leaves washes
Dappled Things
J.B. Toner
My gift? My gift? My burden, onus, cross, Spine-bending load, soul-chafing, grinding yoke, Bit, spur, leash, collar whereupon I choke, The gain that means my ease and freedom's loss— This gift of words, bequeathed I know not why: This keenest hound without a scent to track, This knight without a dragon to attack, This arrow with no target but the sky. Thou madest me a steward, but what for? A herald with no message to proclaim, Shall I condemn, exult, blaspheme, adore, Spit, sing, scream, carol, cry, laud, lie, praise, blame, Repudiate my powers forevermore— Or only murmur patiently Your name?
Dappled Things
K.K. Adams
Lying heavy in my bed
I hear the murmured
whimper of a son
lauding his hunger
in the darkness
and, opening one eye,
see the hour—3 a.m.
I will arise,
hoisting my heaviness
out of the warmth
of my bed,
to keep this vigil,
to be a comforter,
to invite another in.
