Stand-alone poems 

I walked along the moor one day,

Unsure of my direction, but pressing onward 

Just the same. 

Tears filled my eyes, and my feet stumbled in my grief.

I fell to my knees.

The wind cried for my surrender. 

I screamed for deliverance, 

But the wind stole my voice away.

Out of nowhere came another voice.

It called me by my true name,

A name I had discarded long ago.

I lifted my eyes and saw my salvation,

A house with lighted windows.

I ran towards the light.

I soon came to the threshold and put my hand upon the latch.

I hesitated.

I had been gone so long; would I still be welcome?

The door opened and shut again as I was drawn in

And all my fears were shut out in the cold 

All at once I knew I found my way home.

As I heard my name once again. 

The pen is like a sword 

And the page, a battlefield.

To wield a pen is to carry a great burden

And with it comes a choice for its wielder:

To defend something or someone, 

Or to slaughter the self-same subject.

Oh, wielder of the pen, be careful what you write!

As blood on the battlefield cannot go back in the veins,

So also ink, once on the page, cannot go back in the pen.

Spill no ink; spill no blood needlessly, 

As you advance on your battlefield, wielding your sword.

You were once warm and smooth,

Slipping off my fork and refusing

To enter my mouth; delaying the inevitable.

I split my attention between you, my computer,

And my Hamlet, typing on a Google Doc.

I spoke to you absentmindedly, coaxing you

To stay on my fork and enter my mouth.

Then came the shrill fire alarm, calling me out

Into the muggy air and away from you.

I did not return to you, but thought often of you.

I wonder, how long did you sit on the plate?

Growing colder by the minute, until someone saw you

And took you to the belt where you rolled slowly into the kitchen.

Did you wish that you were in my stomach when you were scraped

Or slammed into a trash can?

My half half-dried-out bagel did not, could not replace you, 

But could only remind me of how much I craved you, wanted you.

O biscuits and gravy, once warm and smooth, I hope you forgive me

For abandoning you when the fire alarm shrieked its warning!

I am naked and wretched,

A battered soul, worn down

By all of life’s storms. My legs,

They quiver beneath me as fear creeps

Into my heart and I remember my sin.

I know I have no right to stand before God.

I have no right to stand before God

And yet here I am, in His presence.

I wrap my arms around me, ashamed 

Of my nakedness, but it is no use

For my Creator sees me just as I am

And chooses to encircle me with His wings.

God has chosen to encircle me with His wings

So that I am neither naked nor wretched.

My soul is restored, healed by His love.

My sin is no more, He has removed it from me.

I have no right to stand before God even now,

But here I stand, encircled by His wings.

Words on a page are like little inky footprints

Telling some stories in the paths across the paper,

Leaving others unsaid in between the lines

And in the words erased from sight.

They tell of paths trod and journeys made,

Of mountains scaled and valleys traversed.

They tell of the past and look to the future.

Although one sees the straight lines,

The words give another image to their reader.

Of paths that wind around, sometimes in circles

And of rivers forded and oceans crossed.

Of pilgrimages taken and homelands forsaken.

Words on a page are like little inky footprints

Bidding us to follow where they lead us.

This little church with no building 

And no steeple to call their own

Gathers together to lift muffled praises

Indoors or outdoors,

It matters not where they meet,

For the people, not brick and mortar,

Are what makes a church.

This little church speaks words of truth.

They have no pews and they have no altar,

But they treasure the Word of God

And continually intercede for one another

In prayer, they come before the throne of God.

Full of reverence, they seek His will

And so they touch the heart of Abba God.

Oh dear, I didn't ask for uncaffeinated!

I hope this doesn't give me a headache

I'll just drink water, lots of it.

Will that help? I don't know.

Maybe since I am also eating a muffin...

Oh please, no headache! Please, no!

Haha, and this trip was supposed 

To be a destresser, oh well...

Not everything can go perfectly

I guess something had to go wrong.

The air is slowly warming

And the birds are singing so sweetly

All around is peace and quiet

Until the tractor starts

Jarring me out of the stillness

That was promised to me. Or was it?

People pass by, the chatter

Muffled by the mower.

Until the traffic of feet

Increases and becomes

A constant scuffing against pavement.

And all the while, the birds keep singing

And cicadas carry on a constant trill.

Two worlds separated by a fence.

One is full of people who never stop

Until they lay their head on their pillow.

It has roads and buildings and sounds galore

Made by all sorts of machines.

On the other side of the fence

There is simply a hill that climbs

Until it meets trees which shoot up

Towards the sky. Open and wild

Is that hill, a place of solitude

That is seemingly preserved by the fence.

Never to be touched by our civilization.

I am a lonely soul, I am.

Except, well if you must know,

I have not a soul to call my own.

I am bereft of all but my bones

And a singular crack on my skull

Through which my brain was abducted!

Alas, oh me, oh my, such a tale!

I, a lonely soul, sit in darkness.

I have no purpose, but wait...

A curious thing has happened

That changes my tale.

I have lunches at my feet.

I resolve to guard them.

With every bone that is me.

I am a lonely soul, I am

And I watch lunches!

Staring at grand monuments,

One often thinks that man is great;.

We are powerful though small.

That monument scrapes the clouds

As if trying to reach the heavens.

And this one holds wise words

Preserved as sacred history

Then we climb to the sky,

And oh, what we see,

Telling us that we are not so great

Not one bit after all.

For now we see the monuments

Almost from the eyes of God.

They are small in His hands; so are we

And what words are written in them

Are not seen from the heavens.

And thus we know that man is NOT great,

That belongs to God alone.

There's a woman sitting in a chair

With a mug clasped in both hands

And she's pretty sure her fingers

Are holding their own slow-cooker

But still she does not put it down

Because she is listening--

Listening to the world around her

Listening for inspiration to flow

From her ear to her hand to her pen

And then to etch itself on the page

Listening and thinking and

T

    h

         i

             n

                k

                    i

                       n

                           g

Until she begins to write

The words that are coming to her

At last.

Three trees in a yard

Covered in autumnal glory

Of leaves set ablaze 

By the waning year.

There they stand, reaching

To the azure expanse

Stretching o'er them.

Like three somber kings,

They stand there, robed

In majestic red and orange,

Provoking wonder

From all who behold them.

Sleep has not come by tonight

It seems to think itself unwelcome,

But it has never been so desired.

I wish it would come shut out 

The light shining as a sign:

This one sleeps not a wink tonight

My brain is still spinning its wheels

Click clack clattering they are.

Please slow down, oh thoughts.

I wish to surrender myself to sleep!

Shall I hang a notice in my window?

Sleep Wanted

Will the restlessness then slink away

As sleep slips in and shuts off the light?

I wish it to be so.

I had a little glass flower

Through which the sun shone

And threw purple light on the walls,

On the floor, and every which way.

One day, the purple flower fell.

It shattered and I couldn't put it back

I tried.

I knelt in the mess,

I gatherered the pieces until they cut me.

When I heard someone coming,

I hid my hands, so they couldn't see the blood.

"How are you doing?"

"I'm doing great!" Smile. Lie.

The blood doesn't lie. Hide it.

And yet a thought haunts me:

Is everyone hiding broken flowers?

If I saw their hands, would I see the cuts

That tell the stories their smiles mask?