“For I desire mercy, not sacrifice…” A poem on unpolished love, church pews and quiet grace by Baldric the Poet.

Ground Truth

Grace at Row Thirteen — A Poem by Baldric the Poet

“For I desire mercy, not sacrifice, and acknowledgment of God rather than burnt offerings.” Hosea 6:6

He came in smelling of hay and spilt rye,
six feet of cedar felled by a jade ax,
his knuckles hard, round acorns on his hands,
his thick fingers unapt at thumbing beads.
Beside him walked a slender copper creature,
in rustling silk and narrow, four-inch heels,
Swaying in stride, claiming every man’s eyes,
she held her chin high, sculpted like a queen.

In varnished rows, the elders held their breath.
Parish gossip click like a bale knotter,
count up the months he farmed beyond their view,
sizing her up to see how she’ll fit their pews.
How much postage for this overseas crate,
shrewd men of business estimate her rate.

She wore a wide round hat with one red rose;
he stood, a king with felt hat in his hand.
No stone-carved angel sang up in the loft,
no sanctuary oil flared out a sign;
just two copper clods caught between the prongs,
holding hands, snuggling under his arm.

No sermon preached forgiveness of their sins,
nor words to force the couple to fit in;
no incense smoke could buy what love had won,
nor altar-fire outshine her steadfast smile.
For grace shined at the end of row thirteen,
and holiness stood in their staggered height;
a blind brute harnesses their breaking plow
and earth turns over and buries the weeds.

© Baldric The Poet 2026

Ground Truth was originally published in The Howling Owl on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

a poem

my word
is a reflection from what I see

in front of these eyes,
Pacific racing orcas

let go of your worries
& M E N O R

so this temple of mine can now
feel young

the motion of speed
surrenders to the moment

restoring the soul
from a damage of imbalance

inhaling the wind,
i keep oxygen trapped

’cause my breath is a grant & a gift
Saint Diego, i’m in love with your water

© Yoni Gebru 2026

S A N D I D A C U S was originally published in The Howling Owl on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Casting shade for keeps

I was told to like this colour,
Because green was not allowed.
Used in cloaks and chocolate wrappers,
Too much and too cloying to me.
I want the hue of leaves!
Who were you to tell me it was yours?
A colour is limitless:
Verdant and supple, never owned.
Over here, emerald rises through magenta,
Veins of my true self,
Splitting out to escape
This gemstone I bought.

I already know you hate it.

Louise CW

The history of purple was originally published in The Howling Owl on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.