Paul Lake

The town’s dilapidated LaundromatIs packed this morning with a crowd of menAnd women, hauling bulky laundry sacks—A full month’s worth, in fact. It’s Saturday,The last one of the month, the day when allThe members of our church’s outreach teamProvide the rolls of quarters so that . . . . Continue Reading »

When Saul of Tarsus lost his sightAlong the hot Damascus roadAnd heard the resurrected ChristCry out his name, Saul, Saul, why doYou persecute me?                             And Saul replied,“Lord, who are you?”   . . . . Continue Reading »

“BrickHouse Security saves Jesus for 8th year in a row, offers free GPS tracking of nativity scenes and holiday displays.” Somehow escaping The sharp eye Of angels, shepherds, And magi, Thieves snatch the infant From the crèche To spirit God off In the flesh. Clearly, it’s . . . . Continue Reading »

Far more than Once Upon a Time, A lonely would-be single-mom Wished for a child, and one soon came, Not in the usual way”but sprung From golden seed of barley corn Sold by a fairy. And when it bloomed, A little unborn maiden stood Among the flower’s velvet stems, So small, a shell served . . . . Continue Reading »

As a Boy Scout, Dad decoded The dit-dit-dahs of Morse, the swashed flags Of semaphore, bugled “Taps.” At war’s end, trumpeted jazz, Sported a dashing Errol Flynn mustache, Drove a Mercury coupe, led a brass swing band. Growing gray, he bought a Mustang, Captained boats down the . . . . Continue Reading »

Brave luminaries, Jan Hus and William Tyndale, Were made to glow like scrolling leaves on Kindle, Snuffed out like candles and condemned to night For bringing Christ’s free gift of grace to light. . . . . Continue Reading »

Readers charged that Kathleen Graber's poetry was “slovenly” and “shapeless.” As the poetry editor of First Things, I thought I’d step in and open a wider discussion of poetry, particularly as it pertains to First Things.  Continue Reading »

In Year One, the month of Vintage , time began. Fog hovered above the earth, like an emanation Of spirits underground. The scents of rose water Sprinkled on sawdust, bird lime, blood, and fungus Commingled in the air, like a chimera Exhaled from broken mouths. The word Virtue Rumbled above the roar . . . . Continue Reading »

A neighbor passing by the widow’s house Stopped dead on seeing him in the garage Behind the wheel of his new Lincoln, slouched Half toward the dashboard, as if tuning in A Cardinals game. The shape was no mirage, He said, but Clarence, or a living twin, Though just how that might be, he . . . . Continue Reading »

A bloody handprint on a windowpane Beneath which, blood-scrawled letters spell Beware. Across the street, a pumpkin with straw hair Gathers his seedy thoughts like Harvest grain. Then, like an evening shadow, Halloween Spreads darkness down the block, and black despair. The bloody handprint on the . . . . Continue Reading »