The sky pools red this Hallowtide.
We enter, ease into a pew,
And whisper prayers for those who died,
For relatives she never knew.
They’re my lost souls. She wears all black
For later when she’ll trick or treat
And thinks of candy in her sack
As I write names across the sheet.
Midway through life, caught on time’s hook,
I wonder if some day her child
Will open the remembrance book
To make sure that my name is filed.
Returning to the leaf-clogged street,
I see masked bones in revelry,
A whirl of ghouls and scuffling feet,
An angel glancing back at me.
—Steven Knepper
How Science Trumped Materialism (ft. Michel-Yves Bolloré)
In the latest installment of the ongoing interview series with contributing editor Mark Bauerlein, Michel-Yves Bolloré joins…
A Tale of Two Maybes
"Who knows, God may yet repent and turn from his fierce anger, so that we perish not”…
Christmas Nationalism
Writing for UnHerd, Felix Pope reported on a December 13 Christmas celebration organized by the English nationalist…