I heard a story,

it came from your lips,

but it was my story.

I heard you say that God met you,

and your words echo in my chest.

So, the Divine came to you in your silent place, too.

The Divine wrapped you in love, too.

I heard a story,

it came from my lips,

and it was our story.

That that floats above me

two voices lift a song,

but they do not harmonize

the notes clatter

ping off the other

each reaching for me to hum along

one song has sharps, stuttering rests

 endlessly played demisemihemidemisemiquavers

punctuated crescendos that raise the noise to unendurable volumes

leaving me writhing in sorrow, shame and confusion

the other song was started before my birth

it is soft like the trees shaking loose their dew onto porch shingles

it does not compete with the other or manipulate my attention

but it is relentless




its tune carries my self, a rhythmic repeat of the shape of me

it is this tune that I reach my hands up to grasp

I listen for it even as the second songs raises its tempo in an attempt to  drown

When I sing along with the kind song, I have won

that moment

that day

or maybe this week


via Daily Prompt: Above


How would it be to know the future,

to know the path

to see the words before I choke on them

to make a plan most perfect

to have a life without trial

How it would be to side step the sorrow,

to never dry dampened eyes

to avoid the sting

to make a happy life

to have a life without grief

How it would be to hold the details

to all the tomorrows

to see the swell of change unfold

to make the decisive move

to have a premonition of bloom.

How will I work and pray into existence a tomorrow to behold?

by gratitude for the days unfolding

by seeing through the love that has been given even through the grief

by making peace and kindness my banner

by having silence befriend my anxious thoughts.


via Daily Prompt: Premonition

Catalan Forge

My soul has been pricked

and my heart has been pushed

Blue, beautiful fire

Blue-Green, the hottest places in my soul’s furnace

Demands for justice in hot tears role out from that bloomery

the malleus drops

and the spark flies

igniting the willing furnaces around.

Who will be the Stoker, who will light the fires?

My inactivity is not a possibility

any shallow existence not tolerated

the flames lick up against the edges of my form

burning away the nonsense and fear

In my eyes the fire back lights

and glow narrow and steadied

my voice picks up among the others

instead of the cacophony of a 1000 hammers falling at random

we rise

we drop

we rise

we drop

together our voices



amplify the others

what begins in the furnace of the one

is now the fire of the people




For the Love

it cannot be that intimacy should find me

in places where I have carefully buried myself

behind clothes

and jokes

and degrees.

it cannot be that joy should rap on my soul

and roll under its door

dance through its halls

and pour over its walls like morning rays.

it cannot be that kindness should find form

with hands

and smile

and hearty laugh

breaking all that is left of my silly attempts at melancholy.

it cannot be that Love should find me

render me exposed

draw me in

warm me

for the Love.



a cradlesong

swept along

rocking back

and forth

cooed from the Mother’s breast

a rhythmic breath

inviting me to close my eyes to rest

I AM here, loving you in the non-doing

I AM here, singing softly over you, beloved child

I AM here, in the midst of the anxious unknowing


a cradlesong

soft and strong

breathing in

breathing out

hummed through a Parent-proud smile

a wordless song

calling me, “open for Grace”

I AM here, watching excitedly your exploring

I AM here, whispering blessing over you, beloved child

I AM here, your discoveries are my delight


a cradlesong

fierce among

the constant

and the changeable

restored through the Son’s bright best

a succor adoration

I am here, gratitude spills from my lips

I am here, dancing in your song, free in your embrace

I am here. I AM here.


What a weird word: Identity.

In my past, I have seen it like Plato’s Forms,

suggesting a truest self–something so fully unique and completely me that informs the self I am in the world,

this form is outside,

disconnected from the day-to-day

and by virtue carries no layers of

societal b.s.,

middle school wounds or

pseudoreligious shame

instead it transcending my experiences and social location;

This form is the most foundational me.

It is a comfort to think, “oh that is not me-me–

that is a distortion caused by external circumstance.”

As if I want you to believe that my actions are just a fun house mirror, not


If I could get back to the me-me then…

But this sense of me can feel like there are so many layers between me and me and most importantly between me and you.

It leaves insulation between our intimacy

as you cannot reach my self and I likely cannot reach yours.

How can you see anything but the shadows cast on the cave walls of my sense of true self and operating self?

You can’t.

The only me that you can know is the me with story.

I have grown

my sense of me is not so disjointed within

me is the me before you

I grow in knowledge and wisdom


the shape of my identity have changed or been shed like skin cells,

once me but now dust.

I do not fear so much this sense of me as much,

this one has the freedom to morph and change

it is not static

its validity is not based in its ability to be unchanged.

I change, but I am known and I can know you.