An Easter Poem (A Day Early)

Allow me to compose for You,
for I called You
a poem knowing that You
in all You

are art.

You are words dripping
from my tongue, satiating
A thirst for medium
form, and style,

I called

You, Poetry.
You showed up
late and underdressed,
A sight to behold.

All glory,
In the sunlight.


Poem: Untitled



Brains think and believe

in electricity that sparks 

movement from limb to limb.

And we continue

in this way calling it synapse

or science,

Which is really just a more

decorative description 

for that which we cannot understand.


Psalm 104:27-30




The Difference Between Truth and Fact

Thirsty trees sprout

Up from the earth awaiting 

the truth of summer rains.


John 3:31-36


Inspired by Psalm 93: A Dwelling Place

A Dwelling Place

I thought that I had found the place where you live,
amongst the dewdrops in the morning.
While combing through thick fog to find
the tall rocks near the ocean.

May that I rise to meet you.
Lift me with the ocean spray,
following the contours of your coastline
with a photographic memory.

I thought that I had found the place where you live,
tensing and relaxing the waters,
In the shadow of the sun,
rotating with the earth.

May that I rise to meet you,
As a patch in your interstellar canopy,
Knowing not your beginning and ending,
knowing only where we are connected.

I thought that I had found the place where you live,
beating delicate wings on strong winds,
Coming down from your high places,
to taste of human life.

May that we meet on earth.
Be that gentle itch
Prompting my hands to reconnect
with their own skin.

I thought that I had found the place where you live,
reverberating through my quivering soul.
Enmeshed in the shimmering darkness,
Where all distinctions collapse.

May that I draw in to meet you.
Locating the wellspring
From which your wisdom flows.
Fortifying the bones
Of your people.

Today, the world has lost one of its greats.  Maya Angelou’s poems were the first that I remember hearing.  May she rest in the peace she so deserves.



The silence between

heartbeats sounding in still air

writes the songs we sing.