This Act of Writing

You are a writer,

so you know

that it is a terrible thing–

this act of writing.

You make yourself vulnerable with every word.

Even more so with poetry.

You must distill the truth about yourself

into something quickly consumed

and easily judged.

Few things scare me,

but this baring of the soul

is exquisite anguish.

NPWM Day 24: Between My Mind and Heart

I am afraid I’ve ripped a tear

between my mind and heart.

I’m not so good at sewing.

I don’t know where to start.

The ragged threads are all exposed.

The flaw is plain to see.

I must confess, I’ve made a mess

out of this tapestry.

I don’t think I can fix this.

I need a steady hand

to come and stitch my brokenness

without a reprimand.

I don’t need you to tell me

I’ve ripped myself apart.

I feel it every moment

between my mind and heart.


NPWM Day 15: Moon

As we drove along the winding, shadowed street

I gazed at the sky, criss-crossed with branches

Flashing by, blurred by speed and motion

And I said I would write a poem

About the moon, hanging like a golden coin in the dark

You didn’t say much, because the thought

Of poems was painful to you

No golden coins could make up for

The price you paid in the reading of poems

I cannot un-write them, cannot un-feel them

You cannot forget them, though you wish otherwise

And the words hang between us

Like a moon in the sky

Like a curtain of rain

Like a frozen memory

And I ended up lying after all

I didn’t write of a golden moon

But of you

NPWM Day 5: The Architect’s Daughter

The architect’s daughter

sees potential in everything,

envisions a future

of possibilities and promises.

She tears down walls

and reshapes space

and ushers in light through new windows.

She pulls together the unexpected,

the unprecedented,

and a plan takes shape beneath her hands.

She sees results before they’re realized.

She holds the vision in her mind

until everyone else is able to see it too.

The architect’s daughter

overflows with potential,

but she keeps no promises for herself.

Possibilities too painful to imagine

are locked away and laid to rest.

There are some walls she can’t tear down,

some windowless spaces

that cannot be bathed with light.

I am no architect, no visionary,

but even I can see

that she is the dream being realized,

the potential actualized,

the renovation,

the renaissance,

the rebirth,

and I hold the vision in my mind

until she is able to see it too.


NPWM Day 1: Infinite

You and I are infinite

How many times

How many lives

Have we locked eyes

and known




Nothing constant but

your hand over my heart and

my head tucked under your chin


Worlds upon worlds

Have witnessed our story unfold

Never the same twice

I lost you

I saved you

I hated you

I loved you

But in all, I knew you

And you knew me

And that is everything

That is infinite

National Poetry Writing Month


Guess I’m a little late to the game here.  Every year, I try to write a poem a day throughout the month of April.  Well this year, I’m in the most hectic stage of my career as an event coordinator, with HUGE events coming up in the next couple weeks.  And in all the chaos and insanity, I totally forgot that April was NaPoWriMo.  In fact, I forgot that it was April at all.  When am I?  Where am I?  All I know is life is absolutely bonkers.

But…I am determined to keep up with my tradition of participating in NPWM.  So please forgive me for my tardiness.  I will catch up and write.  I can’t promise that every day will end with a GOOD poem, but I will come up with something.  Please join me.  Write poems.  Send me links.  I want to read them!  And if you feel like it’s too late to start, let me be your example.  Better late than never, right?

Let’s do this.


Not every dream comes to pass.
Not every wish comes true.
And anyone who says otherwise
Is lying or confused.
They say, “Not ‘if,’ but ‘when.'”
As if we have a guarantee.
As if the narrative is set
For every life’s story,
And they snuck a peek
At the final pages.
But the only end we know
Is that we’re heading home,
And the one waiting there
Has a place set at the table
And a light in the window.
Whatever happens between then and now
Will be used for our good,
But we don’t know how.

Older Now



You grip the steering wheel just a little tighter,

and we plunge into the semi-darkness of the tunnel.

The weight of a mountain presses close around us

as we fling our way through the heart of the earth

at sixty miles an hour

and the lights, beacons spaced evenly in the dark,

flash past.

I close my eyes and imagine

that days and nights are passing by

each time the light washes against my eyelids.

I slip into the stream of time,

a quick succession.

When we emerge from the tunnel,

how much time has passed?

How many days and nights?

I’m older now by far.


The well flows with water

but it’s empty for me

My parched lips touch the cup

And I drink long and deep

But it never fills me

Never satisfies

It’s not water that I need

But where is mercy liquified?

I keep drawing from the well

Hoping something new will rise

But it’s always just the same

And the longing never dies

Oh, come bend down close to me

Tell me everything I am

Lay bare my secrecy

So I can no longer pretend

That this water is enough

That my life is not so rough

That my heart is pretty tough

Tell me that you know

Every gross indecency

Every hidden part of me

Voice it plainly since I won’t

And set me free

Living Water, speak and say:

“Messiah – I am he.”