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FIRSTimages-2

Before I bring my need,
I will bring my heart —
before I lift my cares,
I will lift my arms.

I wanna know You
I wanna find You
In every season
In every moment

Before I bring my need,
I will bring my heart
and seek You
first.

I wanna seek You
I wanna seek You
First
I wanna keep You
I wanna keep You
First
More than anything I want,
I want You

First

Before I speak a word,
let me hear Your voice —
and in the midst of pain
let me feel Your joy.

Ooh, I wanna know You
I wanna find You
In every season
In every moment

Before I speak a word,
I will bring my heart
and seek You
first.

I wanna seek You
I wanna seek You
First
I wanna keep You
I wanna keep You
First
More than anything I want,
I want You

First

You are my treasure and my reward.
Let nothing ever come before —
you are my treasure and my reward.
Let nothing ever come before
I seek You
First

First
I wanna seek You
I wanna seek You
First
I wanna keep You
I wanna keep You
First

More than anything I want,
I want You
First
First

Spirit in the Alfalfa

If I cannot hear you,
it is because you have blown
ahead of me

running and dodging
in the alfalfa,
functionally invisible

free now of blood,
free now of restriction,
the borders we delighted in

and still remembering me,
inhabiting all our memories,
if only once more

before broadening like an equator,
enlarging impossibly,
like the intimacy of God.

What Jukie Might be Thinking

When you get me pants to wash, check the pockets first for Kleenex.
I’ve told lies that have traveled around the world before I put my pants on.

When you are done with the sports section, just recycle it– you know I’m not going to read it.
Aristotle’s theater of pity and fear is recycled hourly in the gut of a poet.

If you see toys on the floor and are done playing with them, pick them up.
Each of man’s lost toys reminds me that we have no home.

Whenever you go upstairs, just ask yourself, “What needs to go up?”
The villain is like a man on a seesaw: he moves upwards and then down.

Watch how I test the temperature of the milk in the bottle on the inside of my wrist.
The watch on the wrist of the dead soldier moves at the same speed as mine.

Water the groundcover every day in the summer, or it will die.
The sweltering summer tells us to give thanks that all is ephemera.

Andy Jones
Where’s Jukie: Poems and Essays 
by Andy Jones and Kate Duren

Duren&Jones-Where'sJukie

* All proceeds from the sale of Where’s Jukie
benefit the Smith-Lemli-Optiz Foundation.

“Pomona’s Garden”

“Echo Finds her Body”

by Jane Beal

PoppyRoadReview

Dead Come to Life

DeadCometoLife

9m BEAL-NewCrops-2015

“Other pilgrims pace restlessly through this book: Jane Beal finds poetry when she visits landmarks in Rome, but her most striking entry in New Crops from Old Fields consists solely of questions Muslims and Jews asked her in the Holy Land. The poem is a remarkable distillation of the sort of grace and charity a pilgrimage should foster: a diminution of the self, and the generosity of letting others speak. Throughout her poetry, Beal makes the medieval personal—a fox on the roadside reminds her of the Reynard of fable, and she writes in the voices of Caedmon and Dante—and her destination is the answer to an intimate question: ‘What shape does the shadow of my life form / when I take my stand in the light of God?'”

~ Jeff Sypeck, “We’ll find the speck of truth in each riddle …” (review of New Crops)

“Maker”

Margaret Keane

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