The light shone in the
And he rises
The darkness put to flight

He rises so we, too may rise
Into the full
Of a stone rolled far to the
East and west

Follow his finger along
The words
He rises, a faithful
Illumination of who he is

So we can remember
Who we are
Highly favored—
Walking into daylight

Jumping Sunrise

Hushed Reflection

This year, I’ve missed out on the liturgy, and the simple songs repeated until they sink deep within. Stripping the altar. This holy week has been a bit off-kilter. Today I will pause and seek God in the quiet moments. A good day to listen rather than speak. A fast of the writing hand.

I’m posting the words written last year. May you, too find God in the unsettled and still. 


Silent and still.
The air without breath.
Holding it in.
Rocks that could cry out
Are frozen.
The sun still rose for the
In faith,
I suppose…
And in silence.
Perhaps the sun only rose
Because God whispered, “I know—
Rise anyway.”
The grip of sorrow the others
Felt kept them soundless and
Silence feels the way dark
However, fear and confusion
Never is
And it drowns out the sound
Of a Heavenly Father
Quietly filing away the
Completed plans
Of a daring
So far, unheard and unseen.
Reticent doubt
Weaves a weary path through
Hearts and minds,
Recalling days
A hushed reflection
Of what they thought they knew.
The voiceless second day.




The Sacrifice of Isaac

The 22nd chapter of Genesis, imagined.

The Sacrifice of Isaac

Silence fell over Abraham as he placed sticks on young Isaac’s back, “Not my boy, Lord— but your will…” Internal dialogue drifted off as he drank in beauty. The shine of his hair was excruciating. Abraham knows of God’s best. He gazed to the stars the night before so he wouldn’t forget. The mountain was waiting and the child asks, “Dad?” His father mutters that all we can do is trust.

God’s best.

In Abraham’s mind he wonders how painful the best may be. The old man lifts his eyes, and feels a holy pause. Breath catches. It won’t be this son. Giving a name to the pause, silence fell over Abraham.

The Lord Will Bear It.



It’s not the burning hours of failure
My face awash in a radium light
Nor the ageless moments of regret
The minute hand telling me… be contrite
Rather, it’s that same old tick, ticking, tick, ticking
Fear of mediocrity
That keeps me up at night.


Postmistress With The Beehive

Her hair was a well-tended
Swirl of grey cotton candy.
Her neck, the white paper stick.
She wore a flowered blouse of
Yellow polyester, as happy
And loud as the county fair.

Everyone wondered why she
Kept the style that was just
Some strange experiment
For the fairer sex,
So many years ago.

Time moved on and the
Grand heights faded and
Hairstyles changed, because
What were we thinking?
Till no one could remember.

The postmistress with the
Fragile, ancient Beehive
Never swayed in her affection.
It was a signature look,
Or perhaps it became
A fond remembrance.

Exiting the post office,
I wave goodbye.
Not to the wrinkled postmistress
With the timeworn hairdo, but
A seventeen year old girl.
Hair freshly coiffed,
Wearing a flowing yellow dress,
Carefully pinned with a new corsage.

I see her on the very best day
When everyone watched as
She walked by,
And a certain boy
Took her by the hand and
Declared she was the prettiest girl
He’d ever seen.




open-mouthed god


my rawboned hunger drags out a
hollow sound as if it’s biting
deep within…
satisfied with never being

It’s the same terrible appetite
that leads me to believe I’m an
god to whom no one ever brings

until standing, peeled from the skin
at an altar while my forehead
is marked with
uninteresting human stain
I shut tight

those cold marble eyes and feel the
sediment of me— crumble down
my mortal
face and closed lips



in the
and your
with fire

them up
and a
to a
of human