Monthly Archives: September 2013

Striking the Colors

You are God of the wind and the root,
and I, a flag between the two;
tethered to the Truth,
bowing, blowing, windstrewn.
No roots of my own, but a tangle
Of knot and cord
And strangled
And held secure.
Falling flat, stretching unfurled,
And always clinging to my stake
In the ground, in this world
I pray You remake.
Unyielding in my doubt,
Compliant with each gale
Rippling me throughout.
You who never fail, don’t fail
Never release, nor relent,

Even when I fall,
Even when I fail to repent.


I was born in captivity,
But on my father’s knee
I heard tales of the homeland:
The land of the jubilee.
I’ve grown, bones stretching,
Skin pulled like a warm coat
On muscles enabling my motion,
But it is never my abode.
I’ve grown inside
The old man’s memories:
The temple at dawn,
The new moon revelries,
The smell of the altar
And the song of the dove
Smoldering and yearning for a home
I’ve seen nothing of,
And it is burning
Always blazing in the pitch black
When the old men said goodbye,
Over the strong, unbroken backs
Of their captors.
The flames of utter destruction
Dancing on stolen bronze,
The silver and gold abductions,
Flickering with screams
Wails of sorrow from the feeble
The sole survivors stumbling through
The blood of their own people,
The clatter of armored enemy.
I’ve seen it all in their eyes,
Heard it in mournful sobs
And whispered lullabies.

In captivity, I cannot know
Does any stone still stand,
Or smolder, or smoke, or can
We ever find our homeland again?
I face my home, which can’t be seen,
And turn my back to where I’m sent.
I praise the God of Just and Merciful
I pour my heart out: I Repent.


I am a Protestant daughter;
My Catholic mother
Birthed me in the water
And I drifted farther

Than she would reach.

I washed up on Neverland.
I read the works of the lost boys
Who also traveled unmanned
Bereft of the pride and poise

That mitigates confession.

An orphan community
A ragamuffin clan,
Who found unity in the impunity
They drank from the hand

Of their Father.


You wrote me off the moment
I seemed like too much trouble,
Pausing only to gawk,
To kick over some rubble,

To find a tale to tell.

I guess I can’t blame you;
You have so much to protect,
And there is nothing so safe
As silence and neglect,

And how could you know
I was never a threat?


I’ve howled at the moon
Rising and shining and twirling
A pale dancer on a dark stage
I’ve embraced the swoon.

I ingested the bay
Travelling many miles
To drink its Atlantic mother,
To live the crash and sway

I belong in the sand,
In the violence and beauty
And severity of her coiled arms
And crested hands.

Am I dying of drought
The rain weeps
In ocean fragments
They runoff devout

And they’ll make it home before me.


I feel shaky these days.

On the surface, all remains
But underneath the plates are drifting
The fault line is yawning
And stretching awake and shifting

All I know and need, but I
Do not cry out in fearful demands,
I wait in rigor
For His familiar hands

To pull me near


The Forsaken Garden

And when you loved me, what you loved
Existed in your eyes
It was as real as love is real,
Unconstrained by guise
And what you saw as good in me
Bloomed gossamer in your view
I was good and I was yours-
It was true because you were true.
And when you left me vulnerable
Exposed to harsher winds,
The good and true you gave to me
Could no more make amends
With the whip of gale, and bite of cold,
And absence of your devotion
Who I reflected in your eyes
Wept and died as broken
And the woman standing in her place
Who speaks vengeance in her scorn
Is just the dried and dead remains;
The blossomless tangle of thorns.

When your diverted love ran dry
And you no longer looked at me,
All you loved in me the most
Ceased to be.

Some Body Work

The engine idles too low,
And you’d better check the fluids.
It’s been a hundred miles since that was done-
I guess I meant to do it.
There’s a wheezing in the exhaust,
And she sputters and she stalls,
Whenever I hit the brake too fast
She screeches shrill bird calls.
Aside from gas and oil,
Well, not much else gets done.
Don’t bother with her outer shell-
I’m just concerned she runs.

Yeah, I’ll schedule another return trip
When I’m paying your receptionist.
Late October? Will I still be alive by then?