She is no one’s favorite bird. Her call is awful; I used to think it was the crow’s. Now I know, but, Oh! When I hear that grating...

New Poetry by Sarah Tisdale

I don’t consider myself a poet. Occasionally a songwriter, but barely that. The occasion of this poem was the commissioning of a new church.

In "The Passing Away World," I use images of light to point to the transient and the finite in the human experience; light that is man...

Chicasaw . . . Cherokee . . . Choctaw . . . Muskogee . . . Seminole . . . names echoing through history, remnants of once proud,...

As the earth falls into a deep slumber, we sit in anticipation and stillness.

Early, risen numbly, they surface from the fog in pearl bas-relief, quick to lock unswerving eyes with the harried (spent, work-bound...

Three small birds, Brown and ordinary, Frequent our porch this October. Fat and round, They drink water from the dog's bowl, And the...

This coming Sunday marks the beginning of Advent, the yearly remembrance and celebration of the coming of Jesus, the Son of God. It's...

In the early days of our family, your grandmother had long brown hair and bangs and wore light-washed jeans, blousy shirts tucked in at...