To My Knight

proposalOct. 6, 2016

My love, you are a comfort in this place

of godlessness, a knight among the thieves

of honor – noble victor, in your face

are remedies for much that in me grieves.

You are a wink of Christ, so dearly bought

by blood not ours, and in your arms I find

a shelter from the battles that I’ve fought,

where I can leave the loneliness behind.

You soothe my spirit, spur me on to seek

more love in Him who made us, loves us more

than we can love, and when I kiss your cheek

I glow with thoughts of all He has in store.

My darling, may I bless you in return

with deeper love than we could ever earn.



Luke 8: 19-39

The whole town is astir, and in the air

a murmur, awe, and wide eyes all around.

We were all shut in tight against the pound

of wind and rain and lightning everywhere.

It wasn’t the tempest’s rage that makes us stare

in wonder – that was natural – but the sound

of sudden silence, perfect and profound

as if in answer to a sailor’s prayer.

Over the lake, the sunrise glories warm

the water and earth, and we can hear a cry

whimper from near the tombs. He is awake.

Our herd of pigs, led out after the storm,

rolls in the mud under a clear blue sky.

And there’s a boat just landing on the lake.


April 18, 2015
Passionate verses settle into prose
I’m paid to type prolifically and fast.
My fingers fly in Word, but my fear grows
that sentences so mechanical will not last.
Creation follows a rhythm of its own —
world shaped and filled in six whole nights and days,
beauty in light and firmament and stone
and stars that dot the sightless void of space.
I am of earth, as Adam, and, as Eve,
of bone and flesh — as both, of Word and Breath.
Father and Maker inspires in me to grieve
my lapse of wonder and saves me from its death.
I cry for Renaissance and find His pen
still authoring me, and I find art again.

Shakespeare’s Desperation

Feb. 2014

Shakespeare is still desperately fighting time,

line by line prolific in capturing one

sweet season – summer – pinning in inky rhyme

bright butterflies to study in the sun.

Like a challenger, he boasts his poems will live

to the world’s end, but libraries have burned.

So many writers’ beauties cease to give

their visions, by men’s same enemies overturned.

As he and all his lovers lie in dust,

and we suspect his words by others penned,

these plays and sonnets like undead fingers thrust

up from the grave, cry, “This is not the end!”

For few bards’ struggles have been so well rewarded –

moments of time that even time has hoarded.

A Dry Season

Accademia Gallery, Florence

Accademia Gallery, Florence

May 1, 2013

What can I say? It’s been a long, dry season for me as far as poetry is concerned. I’ve been praying about it, but I find that the topics I feel I can write about are either ones I’ve already written about many times or ones that are so deep I don’t know if I can express them adequately.

Oddly enough, through personal physical and emotional healing, I find it harder to immerse myself in emotions. And there’s been nothing truly inspiring lately… only the everyday cycle of work (and I write for work, which makes it hard to write when I’m off work), home, simple times with friends, exercise, sleep.

I am working on a sonnet about getting separated from my tour group in Florence last year, and here’s hoping it takes shape.

Until then, patience and prayers.

Impatience – Between Advents

Dec. 28, 2012

How much more heartbreak must we all endure

before that Baby, grown into a Man

and baptized, comes again and makes us pure

as He is, as we were when we began?

How much more pain under another’s blows

must we bear even with this lightened yoke?

How long must weeds sprout where the sweet wheat grows,

the sickle silent while the good grains choke?

How many stars must burn out ’til the sky

rolls up like parchment and the dead awake

to look the great Death-Slayer in the eye?

When will His foot smash down to crush that snake?

O come, Emmanuel! Burn off the night

a last with sunrise – set this dark world right!

Angels Desire

1 Peter 1:12

Was there a window to the womb

set up in the throne room of heaven those nine months,

the Father and the angels gathering to watch

the maker of the earth and heavens


and suck His thumb,

the Spirit enfolding the Savior in peace?

No wonder the angels couldn’t contain their joy

when He made it safely through that narrow birth canal!

How they must have stood in awe

as He took His first breath in the stuffy stable air.

How Gabriel must have longed

to tickle those perfect, tiny baby toes

as the callused carpenter hands wrapped Him gently in swaddling cloth.

It was Joseph burping Jesus,

Mary tracing her finger on His soft cheek.

Ah, this fragile creature Creator

brought into our world

where, even without a cross, all die

through tragedy or slow cellular decay –

what He has done

even the angels desire to comprehend.