• Path of Death,  Poetry,  Series,  Vic Stanley

    Day 36: No Authority

    We’re on the road with Christ | Dust on our feet | Nothing to eat | Nowhere to lay our heads, no sleep. Coded pattern of speech that the goats can’t breach | Told them slatterns this king brings hope to thee | Us folks will shatter the dreams of these “popes” to be. They’re puppets on a string with no authority. . .

  • Poetry


    Written by R.A. Loyd   Perhaps madmen belong in caves wherein the Lord receives them tenderly with mercies unknown to a shaking, howling, blasphemous generation.   A mist on the concrete is three oceans to the hermit; the branch of oak is a sight of two colors; to the ascetic it is ninety proverbs.   Every game and trial is lowercase theology to the itinerant monk, whereupon the body is a constant altar, a legged Israel, a country of praise.