poetry

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

Busted boots and broken buckles            Seasoned scars and signs of struggle            Hollow heart and helpless hustle So much harm, the world is shattering— Do not conform! What you see may break you down,

I could not climb the mountain to reach Victory. My own blood had to be shed for a clean slate— But You did it for me. Filling my cup with good deeds, I

Crushing crystallized snow toward The ice’s edge. Brother ran and Slid long solitaire, rubber boots Rasping. I hedged, then stepped Steady out to where he stood. Gray sky hovered over silver Lake.

The trees glow under the yellow lights, And acorns crack beneath my feet. The wind whips down the leaf-strewn street, Taking little leaves for little flights. Crystal dew blankets the blue grass, And

It’s windy out. The Fall has come. The trees Drop their leaves On my lawn. But I am man. I was made for this. It’s windy out. Leather gloves and rip-stop

At one Sunday lunch in early July, I built up an army of how’s and why’s. Denial was reeling; emotions, stirred up, led to cracked hearts and glass cola cups. I

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.