Raw sawdust throat,
broken canteens around-
dehydrated bloat.

Never enough, empty moat-
no rain above,
Raw sawdust throat.

Drought will denote
dry soul inside-
dehydrated bloat.

though it is remote,
horizons width,
Raw sawdust throat.

Won’t pray by rote,
sated in His time,from
dehydrated bloat.

No empty quote,
but your refreshing promise,heals
raw sawdust throat,
dehydrated bloat.


( a new word for me. Means adj.
1884, from Latin limen “threshold, cross-piece, sill”, on

The call first came,
stirred up cyclone of fear,
of who I really was.

Rain of accusations,
pounding in my grey matter,
Grip of steel, to yank me down to hopelessness.

Hope surfaced in a specific cross,
raw skinned, bloody, bruised figure,
crying “Father forgive them, for they know not what they do!”

Liminal conflict,
at my first, stumbling steps forward,
with stammering confessions bathed in tears.


Bleed my metaphors,
Have a melancholy disposition-
Nail pierced wood,
wood splinters in position.

Have a melancholy disposition,
never healing with time,
wood splinters in new position,
angers greatest crime.

Never healing with time,
or endless self-analysis,
angers greatest crime,
talk through psychoanalysis.

Wound can’t grasp inside,
beyond me to proper, heal;
Smile, a saint, to hide-
from what is true and real.

Beyond me to proper heal,
operate on my heart-
from what is true and real,
what you promised is a start.

Operate on my heart,
and set on it a seal,
what you promised is a start,
plant love, true and real.


Soft halo streetlights,
and cars whoosh by with
darkened windows.

Grey stone and red brick,
with a good shaking,
could lose feet of
street debris and soil.

At your whispered call,
you look ahead, never up,
while the stones are deafening
in their non-response.

Hands crammed in khaki pockets,
a certain wistful hope in the
cavernous abdomen.

Enter a small cafe,
almost despairing at the
barren ordinary lights and walnut,
round tables.

The Van Gogh paintings promised their
warm yellows and melancholy blues,
laughing men and women.
You are sure conversation would have been
scintillating, the drinks lukewarm.

Staring into your black coffee in a plain white cup,
there is no knowledge of the angel near you,
urging you to look higher.

Emotion Poem

Soft white.
It happens when precious truths are spoken.
It sounds like classic hymns.
It smells like autumn sea air.

It smells like oncoming sickness in the nose.
It tastes like acorns.
It sounds like a minor key played.
It feels like a weighted blanket.
It looks like reality with a clarity and deep shadow.


The house was crammed with the giggles
and relative instability of teenage girls;
holding childhood by a very fine thread
batting red, blue, green, purple balloons.
Screeches echoed around the house as several popped,
causing heartbeats to accelerate.

Within hours, most of bodies and faces retreated into quilts and various
shapes and sizes of blankets-
girls siphoned up popcorn with just a touch too much salt,
(not enough butter)
entranced with movies with copious amounts of blood and jumpscare.

A time of strange inspiration washed over a few guests,
and the dark cherry wood kitchen table was cleared, and
filled with blood-red candles.
Several girls started a circle, hands held,
eager to talk to those beyond-
mere milliseconds before it began,
I knew a panic, cold fear rose from abdomen,
heady decision to flee.

One girl there talked a lot about God.
A sudden longing I couldn’t name,
and a curiosity pushed me to ask,
“How do you get to heaven?”
Uncertainty written in her eyes,
and she started to pray, asking me to
repeat after her.
I called to Jesus at her urging,
and the subtle darkness I sensed
over everything from preschool times
had a penetrating light break through.
Warmth and joy spread all through me.
This is where the journey begins.

See Truth

Fight the stupor,
don’t bide your time;
sluggish your passions,
indifference a crime.

Can’t cry from your pit,
your garment despair;
you must rise in His arms,
a spark to care.

Push, stand when He tells you,
His hand has you steady.
You need to see truth,
you need to be ready.

Bio Poem

Who is introverted, impulsive, slow.
Who is the sister of Stephen, Sarah, Clay, Ashley.
Who loves writing poetry, my husband, friends.
Who feels melancholy, impatience, affection.
Who needs kindness, patience, love.
Who gives time, willingness, gifts.
Who fears darkness, hate, perversion.
Who would like to see my kids love God and others, my husband come to love God, and published writing.
Who shares childcare, money, time.
Who is wife, mother, and daughter.
Who is a resident of Troutman.


Far away shouts of
ravenous orange flames
in the throes of it’s
own gluttony,

while in our distances,
the smoke whispers,
as it intertwines with
the spectrum of amber leaves
in our woods.