I stumble across writing in the dust,
And in my foolishness I wish it was a message from You.
You know my heart, and know my sin
Of looking for a sign in emptiness,
So I am humbled, but still wish most of all
That You’d speak to me, and tell me
That You are near.
You inscribed on stone and people strayed,
You traced words in the dust, and drove men away.
I want to be engraved on your palms,
For us to walk by each other’s side,
Bound more than a body to soul.
At the birth of autumn, the moon and Jupiter and the porch light
Pierce the night, uncovering the thievery of raccoons in the grapevines.
I, too have been given my daily bread and been given what is good –
In these things, I know that I am loved, and feel that I am home.
I dreamed I held a wounded swan,
And it fell asleep in my arms.
I awoke to find blood
Still fresh from its wing
Staining my soft white shirt.
Glass cogs in an iron machine
Are all my efforts could ever be.
All the things I need
I grieve –
The cycle goes on without me.
Swinging low from a high-strung tree,
I know this won’t go easily.
Nowhere to go from here
But down,
As far as I can see.
No ignorance nor naivety,
Innocence, nor novelty
Can bring any lasting reprieve –
I’d somehow rather bleed
Than do the right thing.
I’ve got an uncomfortable feeling,
Like a toddler’s heels digging into my thighs,
Or like a dream where all of me is moving through molasses.
I just want to close my eyes and sleep, since nothing calms me.
I wonder what it’d be like to have agnosia,
Or aphasia, to see brightness and not call it anything,
To just listen to someone’s voice for the beauty of it.
It’s terrible of me to say, but it oddly sounds nicer than anything.
Lord, shed light on what is keeping me apart from you –
No, I know, I know how I’ve sinned against you.
I’m hiding,
I am hiding in the garden.
Forgive me.
Today is one of those rare days
Where the clock hands aren’t running away from me, and time takes its time.
Where I actually try
Something that I’ve tried before, and I just pray that it leads to something good.
So, it didn’t feel real, walking on the side of the road
Bordered by dogwood and bittersweet nightshade
Softly battered by the sun, floating downhill.
And it doesn’t feel real, waiting for my bus and hearing the twang of a country music festival float under the underpass to where I’m sitting on my suitcase
And I feel like I’ll never be at the core of things,
Skirting on the edge of the space between places
An electron being traded from outskirt to orbit.
There’s a mosquito in my basement
And I wish it would get out –
It’s buzzing round my bitten neck,
The dreadful demon lout.
I think that we will never fully and completely understand everything about God. Perhaps eternity will not be a time where we will suddenly know everything, but a time in which every moment will be spent discovering something new and wonderful about Him and his infinite love, boundless grace, limitless beauty, and unfathomable goodness and strength.
That sounds so sweet to me, to spend eternity learning.
When I’m not in denial,
I am dirty, the world is ugly,
And every little thing in it.
Life is selfish and love is crude –
I never want a thing to do with it.
Is it because of people I feel like this,
Because of a horrid humanness?
It’s because of a spitting on sacredness
And scoffing at things that are good.
It makes me want nothing, either good, or bad.
It makes me not want this body, or anything in it.
Anything I will have, or have had, or said –
I can only pray for peace with a smidge of it.
There, I would like to have peace with a bit of it –
I usually believe I do.
I’m elated the birds are singing again.
My happiest moments are the occasions
Where I can study the things around me in detail, undisrupted
(A highlight of the month was gazing at the ceiling of a bus,
which is more beautiful than some people).
I really don’t want to be bitter
Toward me or you or the world.
When I’m not thinking about it,
I want to make the most of it – what I have, and what I am.
I am, therefore I art 
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