“The value of the myth is that it takes all the things we know and restores to them the rich significance which has been hidden by ‘the veil of familiarity.’” -C.S. Lewis
This is the worst of times. I, a single dog in possession Of a particularly dirty tennis ball, Am in want of you. I wanted to play yesterday, And the larks, bravely singing,
I made some assumptions about you From the first time we met. Most of them turned out to be true, But I have more to find out yet. From the first time we
He didn’t know where he could go He just stood alone on the shore. The boat was swamped and the oar was lost The fog made his vision poor. Stuck in the
“Erik, dae ye ken the wind Roving o’er Swaeden? Wha’s the cloud, the billow’d smoke Wi’ danger heavy-laden?” Erik didna ken the wind; He didna ken the smoke. An’ nae
Look at that tremble: your fingers Clutching your coffee cup like a mast, Like a slice of Still amid the Turning— The knife scratch, the child’s cackle Of those playing the “them”
My friends played in the church stairwell To let the time go by. I would have gone if I was brave, But fear left me standby. I wanted to go up the stairs,
No darkness covered my own eyes; the darkness was within. A bitter, cold, unwavering mass that was my covered sin. Every crevice filled with black, each thought perfused with ebony, These thoughts collecting
On the Sunday when my father’s grandfather died, Father got up early and went to the house, yellowed With age and perched on a wishy-washy foundation. When he returned late that night,
I miss the birdcalls. Now through my window flashing seeps The siren-gusts hurtling around my apartment building. I miss green leaves. Through the curtains, The metallic sky stares at me From the other
“Why?” demands Your child again; I’m injusticed, tired, petulant. “If you are God, then why?” No reason comes. I kick my feet Until You call and face me toward I AM. You
I remember a day when we sat around the fire and laughed while we sang. I remember a day where we jumped over walls and skipped over puddles in the yard. I remember
No rest for the Vivid The ones drowning in dreams The ones weaving skies out of sorrowful screams The ones wringing new colors out of old rusty blood The ones stepping up above
“God does not beg you for your natural gift, Nor does He lend an ear to impish taunts. He can remove the skill His servant flaunts, And to each rebel, His revenge is
Crimson and milk canopies frame her mind. Truth and belief stand as giants—doubt stretched between. Self clutches a staff of hope And walks, Ignores the faceless shouts from below—fear, misery, regret—
Music plays in perfect harmony, Colors line the stars in the deepest hues, Words take the breath from her heart, Clouds surpass all believability— Friends frame her heart in hope, Play the music
You two asked me to come with you one Friday night, And I agreed. We sat on the floor of an empty room of an art show With a piece showing rain falling
I remember you. I remember how eagerly you listened to my heart and my secrets. I remember how you wiped my tears And made sure no sorrow was left. I remember you. I
I sat and watched a long black cat With eyes of smoldering gold She paced along a crumbling wall A restless hunter’s prowl. Then sprawled she in the sunlight’s warmth, Her
“So I looked, and behold, a pale horse. And the name of him who sat on it was Death, and Hell followed with him...” —Revelation 6:8a I draw near to the Light.