• Poetry

    The Word

    Son, ferried within water, the womb        of his mother. She, comforted        on the back of a donkey,        led at the hand by a hopeful man,        father, to the House of Bread.Seer, sounding words that seared the          hearts of those who heard, time         in the temple as He lives into His         name, declarations undoing the          calm, intentional unsettling.Sovereign, carried as costly cargo         atop a beast of burden         led among shouts, disciples          offering praises as He entered     …

  • Poetry

    Keeping Watch

    I flatten myself carpetside, legs parallel as the lines of a crosswalk,arms a perpendicular “T”to my torso, aching as theystretch (or do they stretchand therefore ache?) Open-bodiedstance releases all weight of this weary week.White-flagging my way to the floora wide space spans my once-tightpalms, now held by an invisiblesilken thread index to index.Sprung free from the web of close-inclamoring that’s cluttered my days,revelation arrives via the limbs.My body remembers a vast freedom,the lull and lilt of quiet, room to roam.Bones at rest, eyes shuttered, the inky viewmessaging my brain. Sometimes I don’tknow what I don’t know, how tightlyI’m wound until I’m undone. I want tolive undone.

  • Poetry

    The Ministry of Trees {a #poem}

    Autumn morning, my eyes are trained through windows to the shadow show on tree trunks, crayon box of colors falling through space from newly-revealed branches. Creator comes to mind, how He carries us, colors us, covers us with His power, tree-like arms our strength, raising us Heavenward. Aware that sap is invisible, a pulsing, sticky river, carrying nourishment in its wake while eyes are trained on cottonwood, maple, Evergreen. I rarely wonder at their hidden strength, seldom stop to remark, Would you look at the energy feeding those trees!? And still it flows. Likewise we fuss and worry that God may not be at work while we grow our leaf-filled days.…

  • Poetry

    Gossamer Faith

      Sir spider suspended, still but for the invisible jarring of his aerial abode. Does it frighten him to be held by strength he cannot see, to scuttle across the sky, limb to leaf knowing the opposite anchored end could detach in a blink? Still he spins in space, hovers across my path while I dodge and duck and pray, Dear God to have                           faith of a spider.  

  • Poetry

    Water Carriers {a #poem}

    Thirsty, thankful hearts raised, open cups held aloft, receive the joy of song and words, healed in the hearing. We ferry the precious bounty via voice and tone, conduits of the balm that is the bounty of praise, pouring into vessels, empty to be filled. Parched lips receive the draught and splash in the glory drops, wash in the words, bask in the golden sound as it channels life through the veins. We slake the thirst and all are watered in turn, rivulets of your Presence soaking like canals in the desert, skirting the dry land. ~~~~~~~~ This poem came out of a Writer’s Retreat my friend Kimberlee Ireton and…

  • Female Faith Poets,  Poetry

    Female Faith Poet-Laurie Klein

    Laurie Klein and I first met online after I’d been following her work in print for a number of years. We share a common decade and a love of poetry and song. I then discovered she was blogging and we’ve been corresponding ever since. Laurie is the author of the prize-winning chapbook ‘Bodies of Water, Bodies of Flesh’ and the classic praise chorus ”I Love You, Lord.” Her poems and prose have appeared in many publications, including Ascent, The Southern Review, Atlanta Review, Terrain, and the Holman Personal Worship Bible. She is a recipient of the Thomas Merton Prize for Poetry of the Sacred. Her most recent release in the…

  • Poetry

    Kindergarten, January

    I never dreamed one day I’d be parsing a picture book explaining to five year olds that yes, a black man was shot by someone who hated him because of the color of his skin, and before he died he had a Dream for children just like them. After the story (required), they—with their earnest, “Was he real, teacher?” “Yes, he was,” and  me with my tears welling up, held at bay (I’m the grown up after all) stunned at their beautiful innocence, so sure of what they believe, too young to know any other truth, with their small-ish hands placed in front of them, like so many skin-made flowers, a spontaneous array…

  • Poetry

    Writing Exercise {a #Poem}

    “Stretch” must be a biblical word, regardless of one’s age (an extension, a straining) like a two-year-old reaching on tiptoes towards her Father, not unlike the discomfort of unfolding old bones and well-used knees, joints so stiff they’ve forgotten how to bend. I want to stress and press past the comfortable, groan with the growing, the knowing that daily I must reach, pushing back against all that stagnates and stifles learn to lean, in, out, up, force myself to taste the hard that makes me healthy like a spoonful of unwanted needful medicine, and hold on, taut as elastic, grow with each reach, a creature who craves comfort but who knows in the end it’s…