Rogue Homilies by Deidre Price

a study of life that smacks of the divine

Tag: poetry

Rogue Homilies – Fall 2016 Issue Is Here!






Oh, family. You’ve waited and loved well, and I’m happier than anyone to announce that the first issue of Rogue Homilies is here. Thank you for sharing your stories and your lives in these pages. You’re a generous people.

I’ll be blogging the story of how this magazine came to be in the coming week and hope that you’ll return for that piece, as it shares a story of stories, really, and preaches the goodness of community–even a community of veritable strangers that come together even just on the page, or just online, and maybe just for a little while.

I have few words left except to say that I’m so grateful for the experience of building this magazine. I hope that you’ll honor each author and artist by moving slowly through its pages. There hasn’t been a time I’ve sat down to edit or design and haven’t teared up. It’s been an humbling process to have my hands on others’ writing in this way, and each time I return to this project, it moves me in incredible ways. I hope it moves you, too.


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To download the issue, click here: Rogue Homilies – Fall 2016 Issue.




“The Emergency” by Gileah Taylor from Songs I Have Sung


“Cheap Paper Phone” by Gileah Taylor from What Kind of Fool 


“Going Home” by Gileah Taylor from Songs for Late at Night, Vol. 2



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“Beams” by Deidre Price // 2016 Poem-a-Day Challenge



My outdoorsy husband’s iPhone charts the stars.

He holds it to the sky, and an app plays

dot to dot with fire suspended in spaces

he’s never been.


He dreams of Nashville evenings,

classifies his days as though they are the fine woods

he turns into better things.


We want to turn into better things.


I dreamed of New York before the children crept

into me. Now every inch of my home is a crawl space

as colored plastic works on my sanity, diligently

as though it will be paid.


My days are floors and counters.

I identify stains and know not just that it is urine

but also whose.


We sing old songs to fill the air that fills

the rooms between other people’s dreams–

a violin among the dance shoes,

caped costumes and batarangs, 

tea at noon for twelve puppies and an octopus. 


The skies come to me these days.


As sure as my husband’s astrophysics,

my own sun and moon come bedside, gifts in tow at 6 a.m.–

Lego heroes in need of repair from their long night of sleep,

a sushi backpack full of marbles, missing jewelry, and silverware,

carried in with a blanket, blue as our Florida sky and covered

in white circles our smallest one calls “moons.”


We realize new dreams,

beaming at us, always whole.


April 1

Today’s prompt is “What kind of moonlight comes through your window, covers your lawn or glistens over the last of the snow?”

Share your moonlight poem in the comments, and join us tomorrow for another! 

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A Good Friday Reflection from a Mother to a Mother

Blood Moon

I hold my son closer on Good Friday,
the day another mother could not hold her own.

I cut crusts from turkey sandwiches,
send him off for a preschool party
where he will find plastic eggs and joy in grass.

Another mother stands in sand,
sees her son given over to death
for three hundred dollars by a friend.

My son’s friends say goodbye
with hugs in hallways
near Resurrection signs in construction paper.

But today another mother grieves
sweat and blood and breath,
sees him thirst.

My son thirsts, too, and I pass a cup
he fills with crushed ice and pure water.
He drinks in peace.

This other mother’s son dies in front of her
as she hears the words, “It is finished.”

Still a blood moon comes tonight
and I keep holding my son closer,
the day another mother could not hold her own.

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Do I Bother You Like Plexus? – #NPM15

I try not to talk about my weight
in the same way I try not to talk
about my children at work.

But I’ve become the elephant in the room,
conspicuous as a Cheerio stuck to my sleeve,
the constant yogurt on my shoulder.

Weight is easier to carry than pictures of my children.
I lose one and keep the other.
I bore easily at “my, they’ve grown.”
“My, you’ve grown” lives only in texts and whispers.

But online…

Online the potion peddlers find me,
give themselves away in Drink Pink! hashtaggery
hidden in sentences that wind
like country roads.

Online they tell me to Think!
But would you believe I work better with a little clutter?
And I’ve been thin before, so it’s nothing novel.

Online they meme away,
testify revival-tent-style,
selling something that will save us all.

But we all preach a little Plexus
with our causes and elbows we serve at the dinner table,
from Namaste to Obama,
War Eagle to Who Dat?
All cheers and jeers form alphabet soup
that stoops lower than the Tide sometimes.

I post poems like written saviors.
I say, “You can start today!
Everyone starts somewhere!
Ask me how!”

I share stories that aren’t mine
so you can see yourself in them,
at first before, then one day after
and you, the literary paper doll,
a living Mad Lib.

Take this sole solace:
At least there’s only one of me.

This poem was written as part of a poem-a-day challenge for National Poetry Month! Write your own and tag #npm15. And leave comments in response! I’d love to hear from you.

Remember that the poems that appear as part of this challenge are dirty drafts; they may change with each visit to the site.

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