Perhaps––who knows––He tires of looking down. Those eyes are never lifted. Never straight. Perhaps sometimes He tires of being great In solitude. Without a hand to hold. – the last stanza of “The Preacher: Ruminates Behind the Sermon” by Gwendolyn Brooks In Plato’s Republic, poets were only welcome if they wrote praises to the gods. No versesContinue reading “poets against the status quo”
black flag theology 