Published
a smattering of some of my recent published work
HELLO, LIGHT
Published by DTS Magazine | Awarded 4th Place in Poetry by The Evangelical Press Association, 2024
I remember, too, the sunrise. The miracle
of dawn just when I deemed myself
destined to dwell darkened foreverFirst, a flickering like tiny fireflies
of silver, then wavering like a lone
meek candle braving the horizonThen, peeking like golden dapples
through trees; hope dancing
and pirouetting in invitationAnd finally, like you struck
your divine match and—reckoning
it to my heart—engulfed me.And I remember how it drove
the darkness screaming. How,
at first, I stood bewildered, blinking
like an unburrowed mole before
your brilliance, astonished to find
that you warmed instead of blistered
WAIT
Published as ADVENT by Fathom Magazine
What I would not give to rise
from this window seat of longing
and brave my way into the gray
and through the gray to part the veil
that obscures life from LightIf I were a bird, I would nest in you, in your safety
Pluck the healing from your hands
and place, honey-sweet, your promise
on my tongue. Oh, to taste your goodnessYet…
your already-but-not-yet kingdom
will not yet receive me.
Not yet.I must wait,
face and hands pressed
against the glass Peering,
seeing only dimly nowI must wait
for your hand to throw open
the palace gates, for your hand
to lift the curse, to lift my chinWrite your name upon my brow
Place your pledge upon my finger
Tuck your flower in my hairI will wait.
HOLY GROUND
Published by Fathom Magazine | Honorable Mention in Rehumanize International
Boot bottoms, dusty with holy ground, trampled
Divine abundance desiccated by gulping
greed and inebriated industryLand watered by war and plowed by gore
Opulence obtained through oppression
Suffering sown as seedFlags planted instead of freedom
The stolen ground grumbles and beneath it
the blood of stolen bodies groansLoam—once fertile and fruitful—
now crumbles, as parched and poisoned
as the American church witnessStewardship forsaken for profit
Creation exploited, embezzled
The plunder hailed as God’s bountyCultivating dispossession, a mockery
of freedom. We pledge blind allegiance
to truth untold, praise a hidden historyShoulders proud, hands over hearts
of stone, erecting monuments
where we should be kneeling graveside
UNNAMED IN THE STORY
Published by Fathom Magazine and in Lattes with Luke by Dr. Sandra Glahn
Then Jesus told them
yet another story:
“Once a man had two sons…”
– Luke 15:11-31
The kitchen window framed the scene—
the proud posturing, the wild gesturing.
And I, with linen towel twisting
between fretting fingers, watched
as a broken boy extended his hand,
demanding honor from Kindness.For six years, I coursed my days
and minded my worries at the window,
eyes straining down an empty road,
prayer pouring from mourning lips.
In the evenings, I despaired as
low shoulders—burdened beneath sorrow—
undressed in tallow light,
and rough lips mouthed unanswered prayers.
While I, unnamed in the story,
lay beside him, hand-in-hand,
sitting shiva with Kindness.Each morning, I rose with the dawn,
picked limp dreams from the counter,
and kept watch at the window.
Washing, praying.
Drying, praying.When at last our earnest prayers were answered
and our lost son’s shape rose on the road,
I abandoned my post at the window.
Eyes straining to meet his.
Joy pouring from praising lips.
I clutched my miracle on the stoop
and then busied myself with preparations.
But as the celebration swelled, the sun sank
and a new agony dawned in another son.The kitchen window framed the scene—
the proud posturing, the wild gesturing.
And I, with linen towel twisting
between fretting fingers, watched
as a broken boy pointed his finger,
resenting kindness from Honor.
I QUIT
Published by The Holy Shift
I quit
buying
in on
burning
myself
out and
selling
myself
short.
read the rest | hear this piece
SPIRITUAL VERTIGO
published on The Holy Shift
In the upside-down Kingdom,
he flips our tables
and topples our empires.
He inverts our assumptions
and upends our expectations.
He reverses our priorities
and upsets our majorities.
read the rest | hear this piece
BREATH MY ONLY BOUNDARY
Published by Fathom Magazine | 2nd Place Preston Perry Poetry Contest
A mute and silent prisoner bound
beneath ebony ocean depths
dull obsidian within meLips, shackled. Tongue, tethered.
Cheeks, shame-faced and waxen
Lack of light, want of redemption
There is no song here.Bite my lip, seeking some sensation
Savor the copper tang of deprivation
Pennies on my tongue, bitter
Marbles in my mouth, muffle
Anvil on my ankles, leadenTrauma tangled in my hair
Hope mangled by my fear
Can holiness reach even here?
He says yes.The sky brightly beckons
Would I dare rise?
I yearn toward yellow but my fear fettersThe wicked waves thrust me deeper,
send me tumbling
Yet I clamor, kick, climb
for truth is not a tetherFear-soaked and vice-choked,
I break the surface
Breath now my only boundary,
I confess the bitter briny sea,
the brackish wild depravity
and gulp—honey-sweet—his mercyThe sun sways daffodil above me
showers silken warmth upon me
sparks worship deep within me
THIS is gloryMy lungs and heart are full to bursting
My mouth, once desert, no longer thirsting
My first song is surrender
I am free
*the phrase “Breath my only boundary” was inspired by “Breath as a Boundary,” the title of a portrait by Kenturah Davis.
DROWNING IN GRIEF: Thoughts on Courage and Community
Published in Fathom Magazine and The Holy Shift
Grief ebbed onto my shore last year. It came at first just slapping at my ankles with a catastrophic rift in my family. Then a dream died and it sucked the hope like sand from beneath my feet. Months of chronic pain that no one could explain or alleviate brought it higher still. Finally, with the awakening of past trauma I had never quite confronted, sadness like the tide rose to my waist and chin.
read full article in Fathom Magazine
MY FATHER’S HANDS
Published by Fathom Magazine
Fear was my father’s favorite game
and one I learned to play at four years old.
read full article in Fathom Magazine