untitled

Standing at the door to Your throne room
I’m afraid to call you Daddy
I can feel the matted fur clinging to my back
And falling in my eyes
Sticking to my forehead with my own sweat and tears
And my nails so long
And dirt underneath
From digging in places I’d rather not mention
My eyes are so glazed, I can hardly see
And in my haze I drop my shoulders towards the ground
And mirrors are glued to my feet
I frighten me
With the wandering lull I’ve been humming
I keep falling asleep
Even when I think I’m standing
Everything’s just alright
But my whole world’s spinning and turned upside down
And your voice
It comes second to mine

In my inner me I want to be known by you
But my mind tells me Guilt will never allow it
And that I’m a perpetual beast

I gnaw on my own arm sometimes
When I think I’ve done wrong
But everything looks hazy
And I’m tearing silently down to the bone

If you wanted me to be in this place
I’d chain myself to Time
But something soft
Way deep, down inside me
Whispers the cadence of Your heart
And sometimes I remember the joy that I had
When you put me in a white dress and called me Lovely
And I would have died just to hear you say,
Well done
But right now, I’m not fit to be a rug under your feet


I will wait for the day of awakening
When mud in my eyes becomes sight
And you, by deep grace, trim all my matted locks
and patch some unknown hole in my dry-walled heart

And I love that You’ll say,
And are speaking, right now
That You loved me

Even when I was a brute beast before You.

familiar stranger

Sitting close, cool up to our necks
Warming the pool with our burns
Watching my cousin’s hair dance over her face
And thinking nothing, for once

Then, walking down slow,
With her husband in tow
A stranger, I felt I knew well
This is a queen, no mistaking her grace
Her eyes met mine and smiled
And I wanted so deeply to be known by her
And to be called her Grand-Daughter Girl

How can I tell of the beauty she wore?
Even in old age,
remarkable
Smile gently stitched onto her lips
Hand sweeping the fake waterfall

I felt I must love her

And seldom have I admired so deeply
A stranger etched into my heart
And I thought that if I should reach those rich years,
I’d want to be just like her-
With ivory skin,
Wisdom in spades,
And gray curls tucked right into place.

Turning my head as I walked away
I regretted leaving that place

And seeing her there almost brought me to tears
For lack of knowing her name

every ladies' lie

beauties in linen dresses, whimsy packaged in floral prints, melting brown eyes and the sheen of their hair pinned in soft curls with lilies tucked in. Knit cardigans draped over delicate frames so perfect and yet so real.

Why am I the way I am? Tailor, please stitch me up, better. Oh, how it'd be best if you just started over. Some days I despise what you've made.

Try on similar things--lovely things like they wore. They don't look the same on me, don't make me pretty. I am not lovely like them.

Here are two dresses, painstakingly found, now I am the rose, petalled by each soft flow of their feminine ease, frail and fragile, just as I should be. But modesty clips at my heart.

Might as well pull out the paper bag. Might as well hide in the potato sack. If we run far enough from all hints of evil, then beauty must just be a dangerous sin.
How there is no win. Here we are, stuck between conscience and the need to feel lovely. Two hours or three, how long has it been, since the search for a single shirt was set into place, and still no suitable wear. How much time is thrown out in trying to balance a tipping scale?

How do you erase scars from a biting lie that cuts through our hearts? How do we come to believe truth when we know it in our minds and still can't believe it in our cores? How do we accept what we've been given without settling the matter by stating we're lesser? We don't need to be told anymore, how lovely others think we are. Just open our hearts to believe truth like we should, please let it seep down deep in our souls, so that we KNOW that we KNOW what You've made is beautiful. Teach us where beauty lies. Tell us, oh Love, what is our beauty. Tell us, King, how to ravish Your heart.

Mary Beth

Tissue paper heart. Tied with a thread with rocks inside--like an April fools gift. Set on the closet shelf where it's cool and no one needs it. Her hands work fast, so her mind can sleep. She can't decide if she likes to cry, anymore. Laughing sloughs off the bitter calluses, but only for a bit. Bitterness is a sneaky joke. It can skip through the smallest crack.

Oh my dear,
oh Mary Beth
you let him steal your yellow dress,
and now you fight to fall asleep
with a tissue paper heart
pebbles rattle where love one filled
you collected rocks when you were ill
to drop inside your drying well
in an attempt
to raise the
level of love
words are empty and silence deep
when you chose to live alone

Weakness is the devil. That's what she's been told, or she thought she heard. That is why it is dangerous to cry. That is why people aren't to be trusted. That is why love is not allowed.

If you put your heart to test,
you'd finally see the adulterer's dress
that you put on when it's pride you sip
and you worship yourself in the mirror

It is not that Love has turned His back. There are countless deaths died every moment without Him. She chooses to be unattainable. Fear of hurt erases all possibilities of allowing acceptance. Like the bleach that tarnishes her silver rings as she washes dishes, bitterness erodes a once-vibrant love.

It is the choice of life or death
to forgive your pain, Mary Beth
the echoes in your coughing heart
are the hints of love
torn apart
when you allowed yourself
to feast on flesh
and forgot to seek your Love

She has waved two banners for so long. She has grown fond of fighting on opposite sides, and eluding the sting of correction, but exhaustion is the consequence of deception and death the lot of the deceiver, unless she chooses to let go.

Gentle is the breeze that sighs
on a secret field masked with rye
your head relaxes on the chest
of the One Who loves you most
his kisses on your lips are tame
and you can love with passion
and have no shame
for your eyes are on His burning gaze
and he has changed your name

Now. Now there is peace. Unquenchable fire laps up the memory of a tissue paper heart and leaves it white-hot gold.

Explanation-glad I learned my lesson

these summer days,
seems I've forgotten who I once was
thought hints of me show up now and then
I eat mostly apples,
apples and natural peanut butter
there's something soothing in needing little
And I'm trying to conserve tears
I wasted most of them four months ago
little good it does to cry about silly things
I'm happy, I'd say
I don't want much
don't feel much
though my greatest loss is my ability and capacity for love
I've become like a dried crust in a bag of brown sugar
It was something I thought sweet
that did the most hefty amount of damage
love, i think

I've always known myself to be a person of passion
one who cannot get enough of people
one who lives to love
but even those things seem to have cracked
I'm more to myself, these days

I never knew a person could love too much
guess I was wrong
or if it's not quantity, maybe it's venue
is it possible to over-love someone?
I think so
sad excuse of love though it was
that's why I'm hollow
and I find time meticulous
Don't worry
I still like to laugh
I'm not a misanthrope
I'm just a little more scared
and more cautious than I was,
oh, and
dry

just a season
I don't imagine I'll be this way forever
But until I can trust enough to love again,
I'm a little more hollow,
that's all

Firm

I've been shifted
Like a baby born on a ship
Who's known nothing else
'Sides the ever-shifting tide
Choked with seaweed
And left melting into spiteful, swollen breakers
Clammy with the sweat of depression
Stamping prints into the sand
Where foam erased my traces

I saw isolation make the weathered sick
And I, not weathered, thought of death
Disheartened by the loss of joy in those I had called strong
But self-pity totes remorse
And there is no excuse

I tasted with the tang of brine, a ceaseless golden beckoning
Mirth that crushed with fullness
And that simmered at the brim
The sullen cringed in cowardice
Afraid to sip its light
And I stood choking at the fork
Without the bliss of ignorance
But the very knowledge that stole my breath
Turned to set me free
Joy is not circumstance, no, it is a choice
And depression selfish in its nature of prudish misery

And so I had to choose between the old and unfamiliar
But One Whose love was greater
Beckoned me to joy
At last the swaying ceased
And anchored firm I stood
Fearing not the coming or the going or the gone

Compilation

My Sweet, Wizened Queen
published in the april addition of Teen Ink magazine

I guess she was my best friend.
Tin door to the realm of optimism herself,
Smarties candy,
pig trinkets on shelves.
Inside a brassy lamp molts feathers of light.
I’d been welcomed even before entering her home.
At her usual nest, neatly dressed
atop a pewter wheelchair; her throne.
Feet slightly brushing
the berry plush carpet.
Her crisp salmon suit
interrupted by dark woolen socks
bloated on swollen ankles.
Her face clean and soft
silk hair floating atop
her crown, her sweet, wizened head.
My eyes catch abruptly
on her once lovely hands—
mandrakes knobby and twisted by time
and arthritis that crippled
her strong, hardy body.
Yet iron runs firm through her veins.
I resume my complaining;
she says nothing trite in return—
a gentle lesson
in being thankful—
a lesson I’ve yet to learn.
She quilts stories for me,
spinning gently with words
the halcyon days of her youth.
Oh goodness, Ms. Updike, look at the time;
I really should be going, you know.
My summer days spent in her presence,
a contagious aura of peace.
I truly needed her then,
yet how abruptly summer leaves with the wind.

I see my friend little, now.
But I know that she’s there
waiting and
sitting—
being positive as she knows how.
How’s my dearest of friends?
Mother, call her, you must.
See if all is well on her end.
Dial the number.
The one we remember.
Ring, pause
ring, silence.
Again.
It aches to remember.
I know my heart’s blunder.
Ring, silence.
Ring, silence.
She’s gone.

Lesson

A reunion issued by generations past
Still thriving on love and sweet memories
Some gatherers are graced by graying hair
While others sport crowns of silver—
The adornments I desire in my youth
Children pass back and forth
Bearing tidings from a new generation
A peal of thunder
And disaster strikes with rain—
Torrential to say the least
Itching the less joyful of troopers
Those closest to me laugh notwithstanding
A cadence resembling the rain
Huddled together to keep warm in the flood
Smoke blown in from the marshmallow fire
I notice the eldest member of our hearty clan
Dressed for sunshine in a flowered dress—
A yellow cardigan wrapped delicately around her tiny frame
Eighty-six years of this life
Her birthday near this day
She sits slightly cushioned on a painted red bench
Smiling and eating her cake
Then the simplest gesture of kindness is given
And a lump finds its way to my throat
Her cousin, a man, in a shirt of bright hue
Pulls an umbrella off the table beside her
He opens it there and stands to her side
Guarding her from the cold, melting drops
There he stays
Watching her closely
With a faint smile thinking not of himself
How deeply this touches me—
His selflessness
Love wells up in my heart, as I start to shiver
I wish to act likewise, someday

Nothin’ Happier

Bran muffins in our tree house
Sun kissin’ me gently on the cheek
Leaves fannin’ me cool in the evening rays
My bare feet breathing in the wheaty Kansas air
Seems like Heaven on earth
Grey woody planks keep me cradled in the sky
Touch the reefy greenish lichens on the oak
No makeup, just the wind in my cropped hair
An earthy confluence of copper and of green
A field of minty freshness is my sea
I wanna be here forever,
Away from the obligation leeches
The world filtered orange through my closed eyes
As I go to peace in sleep.

Little Dan

You eat popcorn like it’s sugar.
Eyes like denim, laid back, like you.
You’re just vanilla.
Vanilla skin, vanilla hair.
Dimples that tickle your smile.
I never thought I could find room in my heart
for an ornery monster like you,
but I did.
You have a cowlick parting waves of your goldish hair.
Golly, I love you;
you’re my brother—the youngest that I have—
Little Dan.

When Good was So Familiar

The mountains have never held me as the plains have
But feeling them was different than observing
There, all His good overshadowed me
I was who I was meant to be—selfless
Denying my wants
Discovering the independence I’d feared for so long
And it took me.
I was happy not to be fed, rather serve
with my heart discovering freedom,
and then I was led home.
As the mountains disintegrated into smog,
and smog gave way to prairies,
and Kansas called me home,
I changed.
Dusk stirred to ink and spilled into the streets.
They followed me with luggage,
and memory confronted me at every darkened turn.
We drove the routes of my tears
By the buildings of my troubles,
and The Heaviness—two years old—reminded me of its hold.
The driveway was lit with family,
and it was home to be with them.
Yet my room was as I left it,
pain molding on the walls,
and my sleep was pressed with dreams
of the things that pinch my mind,
and the morning brought only tears on the breakfast platter.
And I wondered,
why the souring of joy so quickly in me?
Then I understood that there is pain in the place that knows me best
Home is the place I love the most and where my heart finds the plague Unrest,
for it knows who I was, not who I am now
unlike the mountains where I was bested by who He is in me
Good didn’t change,
Only my memory of me.
And I find my heart cramping with an ache to again be free.

Lawn-Mower Romance

Hesitation surfaces
I hold the keys to the shed
mowing…again.
Yet, as I alight upon the cracked yellow seat
of the John Deere, 42 inch deck, 0-turn radius mower
I can’t help but enjoy myself
The sweating sun—
it drips on the dusk—shimmers off the scarred blades of grass
The roar of the engine drowns out distraction, and thus it begins:
A date,
a getaway
He comes bearing much peace,
and I’m caught in this simple romance
He puts away His sword in times like these—
His greatness implicit,
yet winsome love He offers
It is innocent, our love
He is perfect, while I am not
yet He does not withhold His affections from me
Our conversation
is seldom scintillating
yet in the stillness, His love is palpable
Sometimes few words are best.
I run out of rebellious grass
how I wish I had more time
please grow quickly
He’ll court me in this fashion next week
when the green shoots are again in need of a trim,
and I’ll wait until I meet him again
How lovely this lawn-mower romance

Satiated

What if love was jaded?
A cold concrete tunnel,
recessed lighting, echoed voices.
The luster cracked off life
like dried enamel.
For what would life be lived?
Would death become the preference
and Heaven a desolate province?
Would light shift to darkness,
warmth from prodding eyes?
Would the wisdom of the weathered
be tossed to rooting swine,
our better judgment blinded
as milky eyes with cataracts?
Would hearts still beat to freedom?
Would there be a need to speak?
Would fire still soak the eyes
of men with starved ambitions
or children cry out “Mother”
in the darkness of their fears?
Or would they rot unborn
inside their mothers’ wombs
stiff and not forgiven
without love to bind their hearts
to those of their hardened bearers?
Would the famished haunt the streets with moans
from pangs of hunger?
Would chains hold rankled spirits or
cuffs the will of man?
Would beauty grace the orchid,
or the woman, or the fields?
Would wedding bells be muffled
with a shroud of melancholy,
graves exhumed and corpses worshipped
amidst the thrust of battle?
Would we trust in the strength of man
or the sorrel flanks of horses?
Would we even trust our brothers,
with our minds estranged and tainted?
What if love was jaded?
It is fading;
and are we?

Kansas

brown-carpet hills
windmills without blades
still mirrors reflecting the sky
winding snakes eroding the land
trees bent the way of the wind
crumbling silos
wind droning through amber wheat
prairie grass trembles
an undulating sea of amber
dusk contrasted with the shades of milo
the west, fuchsia and scarlet
a melting, sherbet sun
fades to a blanket of black
ameliorated with diamonds
over the home that I love.

Mom Hug

The dishwasher hums a declaration of her diligence—
a wonderful wife
Kitchen lights hushed yet still contrasting with the night
She embraces me in the quiet
A prayer is draped over my shoulder
My unnoticed tears skid to hers
Sometimes,
I just need a Mom Hug

Breakfast Bonds

I am scolded every morning by an alarm that has no sensitivity to my needs. Five forty-five. This cannot be healthy. Yet as I catapult my frustration at the "snooze" button, my grumping is not stealthy enough to pluck the anticipation of a new day from its perch. I give in and shake off my mental morning cramps, for my most anticipated morsel of time is approaching. These are the days I love the most, the fallish wintery ones, where everything dies and makes love all the redder. The lights are out. I tiptoe through a maze of furniture trying not to rediscover the ottoman or wake the house with creaking. Dad is in the loft. We have an efficient communication method. A subtle "psst" is all that is needed to roust him. Collecting in our established place of meeting—the kitchen—he preheats the oven to four-hundred fifty degrees, opens it slightly, and lights a pine-scented candle. We assemble oatmeal and enjoy hushed morning talk over tumblers of high-pulp orange juice. I care not for high-pulp, but I drink it for him. There is magic in the early morning banter of juice-induced repartee, and the friendship hewn over our granite breakfast bar has yet to crack. Even reluctant mornings can hold the richest of joys.

Where I'm From

I am from wooden pocket doors always breaking, from Marachaun noodles and Birkenstocks with skinny jeans.

I am from pancakes on Saturday mornings and Prairie Home Companion in the evenings.

I am from fields of sunflowers and a dream to plant poppies, from a peace plant with a black hand, and hostas nurtured under an ancient oak.

I am from McTuesday's and the family stew, from the redheads and vanilla freckles.

I am from quilts from Great-grandma Wissman and afghans from Great-grandma Taylor, from Beason reunions and bare feet on hickory nuts.

I am from the rebels, a grandpa who lit girls' hair on fire and dipped his hands in tar.

I'm from "Good morning, Punkin" and "The Lord bless you and keep you."
I am from the "barbed-wire befriender" and two brothers whose bond stands unshaken.

I am from Bald Knob Cross and a root beer saloon, from a drawer-shucker and practical joker whose love for God I owe my own.

I am from those who have hurt deeply yet love freely.

I am from prayers steadily planted and cotton patiently harvested and a family who knows no mistakes better than their own.