What Lonely Place

what lonely place
greets her
with unimpressive walls
and carpet that
holds tight to a memory
of scent

the cat sleeps so
she speaks
to the fly instead and
tries to wrap her
mind around winged sisyphus
and hills

an old chair groans
anyone’s companion
for tea remains
reserved seating for the weight
of motes

there is a sound
to the cricket singing
she cups her hand
and puts it outside to find

Swirl Cone

Quit talking to myself about 50 miles back.
Wasn’t much in the mood to hear what I had to say.
But a little while up the road, I did stop by that
Soft-serve ice cream shack.
You know, the one I love so much? Yeah, well
I bought a swirl cone to say sorry for not listening.


The self-inflicting wound of bale
the also-ran
embraced in mucky baggage
like music
while you were good all along
is forgetting
the lyrics
of your very own song


For a Stone Marked: Faithful— William 1840-1884 — The Strife is O’er


You, forgettable in your space of stones
Among gray
Blurred throughout the years, wind
And rain
Have erased thought or any remembrance
Of goodness
Only grand, sweeping columns of wealth
Leave traces
Chiseled in the books of their life

You, forgettable in your rags of rough
Exhausted cloth
Aged beyond the years of the years
Wearied shoulders
Carry the weight of worry, the inescapable
Family burden
A duration cast in dust unable to hold
The mind
Destined to carry the slab since birth

You, forgettable in your slight space and
Invisible breath
Who claimed to love this marrow of
Infinite intent?
The craftsman of wind, the rain and
unwashed sweat
Says Up William! Join a celebration of
The meek
Where grand monuments vanish

You, unforgettable and beloved through
Immeasurable days
Well-known for a steadfast tread on an
Insolent earth
No more ache or tattered sorrows bound by
Burlap skin
Lifted high in unfailing hands— look and see
Good William
Your name written in the book of life


I surveyed the sunflowers
threaten to hug and squeeze
tight to keep
them from getting any bigger

laughing, shrug it off and run
outside to play
the sunshine of spring helped
them grow a little more

an open window my heart of
pollen scatters
diffuse in the breeze draping
a bittersweet veil on every little thing

I inspect the overgrown yard in
need of care
a leafless azalea vacant
among the unfolding green

a honeysuckle wrapped
verdant arms
around the tender bush
squeezed hard and never let go

mine couldn’t be suppressed
and burst forward ready to bloom
the children run in the springtime air

covered in pollen


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.