poetry

Are any of these colors suitable To reflect a life so greatly missed? To show the difference you made Through how you lived? How to choose even one flower for your grave: Red?

There is my drawing desk Marked up, but bare; And there, my pink dresser With closed, empty drawers; There is my horsey That I would ride upon Standing alone by the wall. And

I’m just trying to clear my thoughts with a water  glass at my table, and then I hear out of the jukebox sounds of psyches that are stable. I’m thinking things

On Sundays I wake early, not stopping To lift the heaviness from my eyes. God will do it, I reason, and He always does—at first, gradually, Until the weight rolls from my

In another world, beneath a great white throne, A holy seraph keeps a Book of Tears. In this book are stories, telling of human sorrows, Of great grief, weeping, and secret fears. No

From the sunshine-cloaked whispers of August To the icy throes of January, My heart of glass decided it would trust His deep-sea eyes shrouded in mystery.   Infatuated with a masquerade— For the sage

Variation on a theme by Heather Mackay Young It had not died, but it had declined, The swarming mass of silver tendrils Snaking unkempt through the slotted                                                         receptacle. It had been a Mother’

Across the ballroom,           She patiently waits for him                       To meet her soft gaze— An invitation           For him to draw near to her.                       He offers his hand, And she accepts it           And their fingers

He was wandering at dusk, aimlessly walking around Washington Park. He examined all the trees and flowers, except the roses, which stood out in the growing dark. In the middle of the circular

When I make my poems, I press the pencil hard into the paper, Hoping that one of these days I’ll Rip right through the pulpy fibers And see the Father looking at

Falling gently from the sky, Dancing in the crisp morning light, And riding a peaceful breeze, To the frozen earth they fly–– Their design, unique. Their framework, deliberate, As they soar from the

A sheet of silver lace Spreads across the glass, But in the gaze of sunlight Its loveliness will pass. The morning bed of pearls, Each sheathed in a shell of green, By high

Mind’s moving at a million miles an hour minimum Knees are knocking in a numb nervousness Deafening discussion is diffusing in her dad’s diner Fellow football players fumble while flirting with

For my life and health I have no anxiety; My God cares for me. By worrying, could I add a foot to my height? My God cares for me. Am I not loved

No one knows That my laughter holds A silent scream, And my smile hides An aching heart. No one sees Beyond the facial mask: The bright eyes, The rows of white teeth, The

I go to the woods to talk to God, Where the pillars of tree bend kindly, And the branches are whispering sweet Secrets between themselves. Somewhere There is the song of a waterfall,

Sweat soaked his skin, But still he fled through the trees. Panting, Nathan stopped to catch his breath–– He knew he wouldn’t outrun the guilt within. Defying the evening’s gentle breeze,

It still haunts me to this day, Those awful words: “Go into the forest if you dare.” The phrase lingered in the meadows And lurked among the wildflowers, A light-hearted joke delivered in

“Toasters are for bread,” I said, Yet something like a leaf was glued on mine. I was not wroth to find it was A moth my father had let in. The myth of

I went to find a sea of gold, A sea of gold, of shining gold, A sea of the purest, finest gold Beneath a sheet of glass. I traveled over seven hills That