I write because I want the sugar I harvest to sweeten someone else’s black coffee . . .

I have discovered my God given and unique perspective comes out best through written word.

Poetry is a chance to squeeze the creative juices out of each word. I love the taste, smell, sounds and texture of words. May you be encouraged and experience the world with fresh sight as you read.


REDUCED TO PRAYER

 

Conversation, smallest unit of trust,

on which faith’s DNA is shaped into obedience.

In the garden heaven multiplies cells of lush truth

while relating to our God.

Willing clay shaped by willing love.

So that, when we are tempted to despair, we are never alone.



MOUNTAINTOP CORNER OFFICE

 

A glory glimpse of your mighty work, after grunting and groaning

up mounds of sweaty mountains–so worth

the breathing room of the corner office. I knew you here.

Studied and learned to read the blue prints of your plan for my life.

But returning to the valley assembly line  . . .

I quickly reverted into a disgruntled blue-collar drone.

Clocking in complaints, among the hot rows of trouble,

The boss, distant and irrelevant, to the idols

cluttering my desk. I missed our team building exercises.

So daily I rise early, hike the heights for a clearer view of your presence with me.


THANKSGIVING, THE WD-40 OF FAITH

 

Despair rusts my resolve.

Construction of new life halts,

when tears of losing oxidize into

bitterness.

The strength of my steel,

tested too long, flake away,

weakening exposed beams.

 

 

Thankfulness is my WD-40.

When worked into my frame

I remember Your goodness.

You built a firm foundation of

faith, hope, and love.

 

No matter the damage I withstand,

I can count on the sturdiness of my God.

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DRINKING VIAL DEPRESSION

I am Juliet, romancing

depression like a star-crossed

lover, and drinking a poisoned vial of knowledge

to freeze the tic-toc of suffering. Graves and rosy

cheeked epitaphs serendade my hopes and dreams

with youthful ignorance. We elope to escape the tyranny of

commitment. Brow, not yet soiled by sweat, does not

have the strength to withstand suicide’s slander. So I lie, willingly,

in wait for my Romeo to rescue. And leave the priests to ask,

“Death, what are your intentions?”


dsc00723

I AM WAS HERE

Humanity keeps scratching graffiti identity

into wood and bathroom stalls . . .

Settling for surface tattoos,

when I engraved you in the palm of my hands.

 

(Isaiah 49:16)


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THE RHYTHM OF THE CROSS

Before the swell of gospel melody,

The steady scales of scripture

Are plunked out daily in practice.

I play my Father’s masterpiece.

 

Before the crowd of miracles,

Prayer plods through lonely deserts

noting life’s measure.

I play my Father’s masterpiece.

 

Before the timing of pharisaic dissidence,

Lessons in theory reveal the authentic

character of the world’s composer.

I play my Father’s masterpiece.

 

Before the crescendo of resurrection,

there is a garden path of surrender

where I watch the winding procession of betrayal.

I play my Father’s masterpiece.

 

Before the harmony of fireside discipleship,

I close my eyes and listen to the master play.

Tuning my heart to the rhythm of the cross.

I play my Father’s masterpiece.


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INSIDE A SUICIDE MOM’S LOCKET

Suicide took future pictures of you

So I open the locket of my soul wide.

And share who you were

Not who you will be.

 

I trace chubby cheeks, as the rhythm

of the rocker sings you to sleep. Breathe

deeply your baby scent.

I squeal with delight at first steps and words.

Bandage scrapes, wipe tears, and kiss bruises.

I listen to life beating hard with

challenges no child should bear,

and ache for God to heal you inside and out.

 

God, I try to understand why you allowed this unfinished

work of art to be painted into my life.

 

Today, I have no calls from your college dorm, no

laughter as you burst through the door for Christmas.

No bride on your arm, for me to share funny stories with,

and no grandchildren for me one day to cherish . . .

 

These are the things I can’t quite release. I long

for them. I had hoped for them. So I open my heart

wider still, until joy paints a new picture into  the

empty memories of where you should be.


img_1547

LET PAIN SING

 

When

I unlatch

the cage around

my heart,and pull out the throbbing

pain within, I am surprised to find a small

trembling bird, waiting for the

strength of release.


Heaven declares a new day!

Prayer Closet

There is a secret staircase I

spiral down, when the front

stairs feel too exposed. In

the darkness of fledgling hours

I retreat. Tracing your love notes

with heart, soul, and mind. Sipping

the earthy tea of you testaments. Conversing

together like old friends. Turning over to you all that

I am.

Allowing sunrise to color in the black and white outline

of your form. Loving because you first loved me.


Continue your story!

Grammar Checking Suicide

Some punctuate life with a consistent and steady  .

Some complete their lives bungee jumping with expression !

Others leave us guessing at their purpose  ?

But you went out with a ;

An incomplete sentence that can longer be edited.


Take the Time To Know Me

I Was Never Here

The problem with a note left behind?

Your unique handwriting betrays your existence matters.


Writing my way through depression and loss.

Menu

Taking shape

Let Me Emerge A Butterfly

I’m a worm

trapped in a cocoon of

depression.

Alone.

No! Don’t try to

open me up.

I’ll die!

Let

me emerge, through painful

transformation,

a butterfly.

Short lived and beautiful.

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