Steven Knepper

It’s Sarah’s old-bone incredulitywrecked by the coos of borne-out prophecy. It’s Jacob learning that his son’s not dead,the brothers scrubbed of blood they long thought shed. It’s Miriam’s, Deborah’s, Hannah’s canticles,delivered from the haughty’s manacles. It’s David writhing, . . . . Continue Reading »

The clouds are fused with amber fireAs vultures climb a dirgy gyre,Babel building with each bird,Glutted on the primal Word.Later one lights on my head,Its talons tight, its wings still spread. —Steven Knepper Image by Jo Naylor via Creative Commons. Image cropped. . . . . Continue Reading »

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 blackFor later when she’ll trick or treatAnd thinks of candy in her sackAs I write names across the sheet. Midway through life, . . . . Continue Reading »