writer & poet
Who are we to fall before a King on colt ascending,
palms pressed flat to scattered stones
that shake with ancient, living song?
We are adoration, lifted from the tongues of urchins,
setting play aside to ponder
what a King … read full post
What breath we own is borne in dust.
We sow what once was and will be
to reap the harvest of our trust.
What breath we own is borne in Dust
laid low, made enemy, and crushed
upon the contour … read full post
They say that just beyond the gates
the garden waits,
earth’s bones will bend to angel hands
beneath the land,
and fountains of the deep will sing:
“unleash the springs!”
While we are weeping at the sting
of absent breath … read full post
Then the pale violet light of winter’s edge
flutters its wings on our table, sinking
in the night, scrabbling at the hardwood ledge.
We watch the fledgling falter, vanes shrinking
to shafts, to ash, its tiny blades blinking
back bright … read full post
The angle is bent as the eye is blind;
I’ve given up hope this will reach your ears:
Forgive me, I’m just not the saving kind.
I’ve come to reject each voice in my mind,
afraid to accept the word … read full post
Our lips are fluid, quick to drink
new liquid lies. We seem to think
some presence due to humbled ones,
some missive, set with drying ink.
Our fasts are full, or so we’ve spun
out in our vaults of loaded … read full post
(a pantoum for Ash Wednesday)
A Word upon Your lips may live,
but I am tired and crying out.
What drops of mercy can you give
to weary ones in dusty drought?
I am so tired of crying out
to … read full post
They congregate in rows –
twos and threes
and some perching lonely,
on the cracked concrete curbs
lining the neighborhood.
They bow their heads,
or stare forward, or murmur
in tongues. Some only breathe
in the incense of our dust, … read full post
Into the midst of
the bombed-out front
where once grew grain,
a voice wails, “judgment!”
and another echoes, “blood!”
and a third screams, “war!”
And those who know more of all three,
and perhaps too much,
turn again to the … read full post
There is poetry in the furrows of a field rent asunder,
and a wonder in the burrows of the small things’ furtive songs.
There is music in the lighting of a robin on a fencepost,
and it’s almost like a … read full post