poetry

Thou art not the morning, Though thou art still and quiet. Thou art not the night, Though thou art cold and dark. You’re a slobbering slave of Belial, A creeping, disembodied soul

Give me October— Its drooping, sleepy leaves, Its contemplative fog, swimming in softly On the backs of somber sea turtles. Give me the Jagged blades of sunlight at morning, the crisp and Fragrant

My sister didn’t mind the touch Or tickle of the sea; More so, the icy fingertips He used to capture me. My sister loved the salty air And skipped toward the waves,

Falling, O Lord, hear my desperate cry! Plunging far from Your eternal presence, Perplexed at my consistent condition–– From my miserable state, rescue me! Save me from despairing reality. Calling, O Lord, hear

“This generation!” they say. “Disrespectful. Irresponsible. Undisciplined. Unteachable.” These are words I’ve heard them use to describe you. And sometimes I have too. But it’s a mistake. They don’t know.

There, mountains rise, Clothed in pine trees, Veiled in wisps of cloud or shadows, Or bathed in morning light; Rolling hills are bare with fields And capped with trees; The morning dew smokes

When I see eyes of a bright blue hue, Reflecting a precious soul in two spheres, I cannot help but marvel at their beauty And wonder at how they resemble the sea. When

In the other world, I can sense when trouble is at hand And resolve each problem that I meet. In that world, I can heal injustices And counsel lost souls with prudent voice.

The inability to love: You search and find the one! But your past: Burning up inside of you, while cold and lonely. The cold and loneliness disable you. The inability to love feels

I want to have lunch with a red-lipped girl and make her smile, To call her the flesh of my flesh and hold her hand without guilt or fear. I want to make

I’m a bit sad, a bit heartbroken. I wish I were nine again and in love With no one, nothing except my dream To sail alone to Japan with my tabby cat.

Laughed at, scorned, and alone, Looking for a direction to go— Lost in the crowd, longing for a friend. You're told you are helpless, never shown A way to grow— Battered and tired

When I was eight years old, a doctor told me I had a disability, And deep inside my heart, it didn’t bother me; What bothered me was how the world portrayed it

I used to think of growth like a ladder. Rung by rung, I climbed. I couldn’t see The ground, nor could I see the peak. If it’s lonely at the top,

All my thoughts need correction, For before, in my meekness, My own so-thought perfection Always became my weakness. I found in my defiance Anxieties each hour In my misplaced reliance. Instead, I need

Pencils scratch and scribble Like dozens of mice scurrying Across a table— The teacher paces purposefully, Watching her pupils’ work, Waiting for the lightbulb— That spark of comprehension. Patient as a farmer watching

Lord! The battle goes on, And the end is far from near; Duty is harsh, and pleasures are dear! The days are so dark that the night’s a relief. Please, hear me,

I know I spoke very directly to him, Very much like a lioness Might snap a zebra’s skull in her jaws. I thought to myself, “I’m not waiting.” I’m not

Life will not be crushed. I feel it rippling beneath pavement, tree roots forging cracks in blacktop, carving a washboard under my wheels, rattling my very bones as I ride. On my left

Variation on a theme by Benjamin Myers The congregants file in long lines of two, Ants carrying their burdens forward, Setting them down to rest on holy ground. Let this mother, forehead folds