In His Presence

Dry your tears on the softness of his grace
and leave your worries at his feet.
Let the darkness of worldly things
remain outside these stain glass windows
and reside in the peace of his presence.

I am writing a poem a day from November 24th until December 25, 2017 to celebrate the birth of Jesus. .. This is day 18.


Hiding Place

Grandma introduced us
as I knelt at the foot of her bed,

fingers intertwined,
eyes closed tightly;
I found a confidant
to tell my secrets to;

(the unmentionables,)

a hiding place
away from the noise ;
the abuse,

just he and I
alone in my thoughts

and books of unwritten poetry.

I am writing a poem a day from November 24th until December 25, 2017 to celebrate the birth of Jesus. .. This is day 11……#Jesus


Love Letter #46: Secret Chord

Footsteps echo the dance
of a harpist’s chords;
psalms falling like secret stars
as yesterday’s rusted tears
sculpt this silhouette;
soften this heart
into a puddle of adoration

swirling like pretty poetry
bowed at your feet.

I thought love was an arrow;
a pain that stole last breaths,
but, oh, the realization of you!;

a light that illuminates
from one beautiful name
dropping me to my knees,
one voice that whispers
through my right hand,
spreading an infectious love

in syllables of solace-
this pen, leaking red;

your words in my mouth.



I used to wait for rain
stand, palms up, pleading
for earth to fall away

so I could bloom;

sat under that weeping willow
many a Sunday, sleeping
under the swish of limbs,
tremble of railroads
echoing at my back-
ears attuned
only to cardinal’s song
to fade the noise
of Monday coming,

It took years of suffering
to open my wings,
to close the umbrella
to feel the son;

to feel the sun.




He listens
to my strings of conversation,
my giggling
in the middle of his sentence.
He watches my lips move
for any sign of tremble;
the white horse saddled.

and even in sleep,
he waits for a grimace;
a twitch of discomfort,
to sweep in
and conquer my demons,
replacing fear
with whispers of prayer,

like pretty little wildflowers,
the scent lingers;
the overwhelming emotion
better than any mortal love,
because he knows
the only way to stay in love
is to stay in the midst
of his presence.

~day 7 of NaPoMo (a poem a day in April for National Poetry Month)



From where, my love,
does this river come
through a smile
and over
our held hands?

The stones, they fly,
but, we bob and weave,
weave and bob
until storms subside.

Petals open and close,
close and open
at the sound of his whisper,

tears trickling
into a river.

Oh, sorrow can be
the sweetest sound
when the answer
is in
his name,

his name, in ribbons

of calligraphy
across my heart.

Day 2 of NaMoPo a poem a day for National Poetry Month!


Broken Flowers

There was a whole field
of lavender, waiting
when my bare feet tiptoed out,
careful not to slam the screen door,
careful not to cry.

It was kissed all better
at grandma’s
after a cup of hot chocolate
and bedtime prayers
upon grandpa’s lap,
peacefully sleeping;

sugarplums were only secrets
rolled and kneaded into poetry,
softly dancing in my head,

and oh, those wildflowers
did make me smile:

~he loves me, he loves me not~

pure heart,
delicate as those petals,
fingers entwined
in little girl wishes
upon a star

to the one
who always loved me.