Sunday, February 25, 2007


25 February 2007, 7:23 PM

You’ve a humility about you
that goes beyond what I can verbalize,
describe to any sense of satisfaction.
It’s not that you’re tops-
I’ve seen you swagger; fluff your feathers-
all men do. Yet there’s a willingness alongside
high-minded ideals; observed hypocrisies
that takes me by surprise each time
your hand extends to ask for mine
or seek within my mind what I observed,
what moves my heart,
what plumbs my core-
what you might have missed
or never known before.


25 February 2007, 12:58 AM

Remove your sandal; tread softly,
for wounded as it is, this place is holy.
Worn and weary wayfaring began
to find its resting place so long ago
the travelers lost all site or hope
of anything akin to home,
yet home was in the making all along.

Remove your sandal; tread softly,
for wounded as it is, this place is holy.
In this moment, on this sacred ground
is food and warmth and life sufficient
to leave beyond content- at home-
these hearts so close to letting go the same,
now letting go the hurt, the lie, the shame

Sunday, February 18, 2007

Better Than I Do

18 February 2007, 10:42 PM

I’ve wanted to meet you too-
there are things about him I can’t know
until I do, and things about this family
soon to be mine only able to be seen
from behind a woman’s eye.

I wonder what you’ll see in me
from behind the same; what you’ll imagine
exists within my world, this world which loves
and longs to love him better than I do.

Apathy's Consequence

February 18, 2005

One of my ponderings from two years ago.

The sky is falling all around,
but we sleep on without a sound.
Those dreams which we once held so close
now are drifting down,
drifting down
upon the apathetic breeze
that bids not slumber break its ties...

It matters not if you are gone
when I open my green eyes.


16 February 2006, 9:14 PM

One of my ponderings from a year ago.

I'm alone tonight
in this little
with moons and stars hanging
from the ceiling fan
paintings on the walls reflecting
the contents of the shadows of my mind

shelves with books and candles
and empty bottles
(few would realize their significance)

There's a gentle glow that only comes
with softer light than most prefer
just enough that one can see
from the street through the window
into my corner of Paradise

where Windows into Heaven line the hall
and in the midst of it all
I remember you
how you helped me find myself
so much so
that there's not a place in my home
where one can look
and not see me

If they knew how to look
they would see you as well
just as I do

Saturday, February 10, 2007

Redemption & the Sun

10 February 2007, 11:31 PM

It's been a while since someone made me
want to write a poem about happy things,
lovely things, things that make those on the outside
cringe to hear them said, because it's been so long
since music was so sweet; since thoughts were so
like honey; since feet upon the mountain of despair
had been so beautiful, bearing news of things
unheard of, the joy of which could never be
believed if not for hands which bear the truth
in upturned, open palms- a heart as lost as mine,
as near the letting go of hope as I have ever been,
a love as close to giving up the yearning to be known;
its God-image, branded so upon the flesh
that one ought sooner die than let it cease to long
for what should have been so very long ago;
what it still might know, given the chance,
given the hope,
given the moment to say yes,


oh God, please let it come- redemption, and the sun.

Construction Paper

5 February 2007, 8:36 AM

I know a little girl who used to play
as if the sky was a great, big piece
of construction paper stretched
across heaven, and someone,
probably God, had poked holes
in the paper. Angels walked about
on the other side, alternately hiding
and letting through the light,
causing them to sparkle in the night.

She knew better. She wasn't looking
to deceive herself with fantasy-
she simply loved the mystery
of what she couldn't explain to any
degree of grown-up satisfaction.

But I'd forgotten her until I sat
with my son watching cartoons
on a chilly February morning. Curious
George would not have been my choice,
yet in spite of me, he gave the little girl
a voice to say she wishes she could
still see the stars that way; she could
see the stars at all; I would look up again,
and see the paper stretched across the sky.

George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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