The Painted Moment

The sky is a looming grey,

The color of old asphalt to the far horizon,

Edged and interwoven with bands of white and gold.


Just overhead

The black silhouette of a bird

Hangs stationary,

Wings beating in slow, measured strokes,

Hovering unwillingly

In the face of chill autumn winds.


The world seems paused.


A live still-life.


A portrait of a moment between the in and exhale.




Broken things






Flawed, Fractured, and Fragmented.



Is that tragic?



Know this,




Glass is melted sand.


Clear, crystalline glass,

Translucent and infinitely malleable,

is sand…

Heated beyond all measure.


Paint is nothing more than pigments ground fine,

Dust mixed with oil,

Redistributed under the hand of the artist

Into windows to a world unseen.


Sculpture is a stone carefully destroyed,

Chipped and carved and shaped,

Until the truth hiding inside is released.


Great writing flows best from hands that have trembled in the dark.



Beauty is created from broken things.



I am broken.


The artist is making me beautiful.




Sunset From My Porch

The sky is rose-tinted gold

Sliding into blue

Fading into gray.

Night creeps up,

Following the painted sky.


The air is autumn apples,

Crisp and sweet.

Overhead, birds trace a moving V

As they chase their eternal summer.

Winter creeps up,

Following the painted trees.


I know bird people,

Forever flying,

Chasing summer.


I know bear people.

Stocked up and hunkered down.

Ready to retreat and wait out the long night of winter.


I’ve been both.


This time,

This night,

This Winter,

I’m here.


I’m moving through it,

Part of it.

Ready to dance in the dark

And walk through the winter.


I know.


The sun’s coming back.

Waiting to Shine 

See me sit,

Sighing sighs deep enough to fill the skies.
A long, slow breath of melancholy .
Still, I sit .

I stand .

I walk .
Sometimes the world presses,

Crushing down to squeeze me out .


I remain .

I am coal becoming diamond
On the days when your sighs fill up the skies,

And your tears fill the oceans,

Take my hand .

I’ll sit with you,

Stand with you,

Walk with you,



Until we both shine

Things (un)Known

There are many things I do not know.


I do not know how to be perfect.

I do not know how to live up to the expectations of others.

I do not know how to tear away these scars that wrap me head to toe.

I do not know how to be other than I am.



There are few things I do know.


I do know that some love me as I am.

I do know that my flaws are forgiven.

I do know that, somehow, God has made these patchwork scars into art.



And I do know that, at the end of the day,

I’d rather sing for the joy of the song

Than for the praise of the critic.

The Race

This race
Is almost done.

I’m last.


Bloody, battered, bruised bones,
One lurching step at a time,
Carry me closer.

I want to quit.

I want to sit in the mud,
And weep over the long miles past,
The road behind,
When I ran swiftly and easily. 

I’m last.

Why shouldn’t I quit?

Why not sit in the mud?

Why not?


“Who do you race? ”

A whisper.

” Do you race the others on the road?
Or yourself? ”


I am weary.
I am worn.
I am….
A fool.

I race…

Get up, fool!


Turn your feet to wings,
And fly.

Sing your song aloud,
With every panting breath.

Run ahead,
Run ahead,
Run ahead…

Race to the finish.


The race
Is nearly done.

I’m winning.

Ocean of Grace

In an Ocean of Grace,




I flail and flounder,

Fighting to keep my head above.


Fighting for control.






Fevered, frightful, fearful fool.


I fight to save my life,

My battered, scarred and broken life.


Let my struggles end.


Let me sink beneath.


Let the waters close over me.


Let me drift down

To find my truer life,


My better life,


My whole and unscarred life.


Fill my lungs with





Fill my lungs with life.


Floating in faith.


Drowning in Grace.