i well over small intimacies

mother sprinkles chamomile
baby powder over me—
a fallen snow absent
numbing chill. i say,
“just like grandma.”
her name a flickered
remembrance upon
my heart: those aged
hands massaging relief
deep inside the sole.
the years i watched
this practice before
placing her feet
in white socks,
then white shoe—
i wondered then
as i do now—is
your soul alleviated

The beginning of this was written yesterday/finished today. The smallest thing, baby powder, apparently has the power to undo me. I don’t cry, but the welling inside, whoa. i’m thankful God lets me write poems about all these mundane, everyday memories. My grandma would say, “who would want to read that, Julia?” I would say, “I  don’t know, Grandma, but watching  you do this was a touch of God’s presence in the middle of whatever news broadcast or mystery show or thought in my head. It made me still, savor the moment. You’ve impacted my life in simplest ways you’ve never known.”

but she does now. and i miss her so. love you, grandma.


he beckons away winter, alights dew

you never let
the desert song,

oh God, come
quickly with you.
fill up the void

gaping with cynical
laughter: you think
he’ll draw close

when you’re trembling
before he appears?
holding onto promises:

making a way through
the wasteland with healing
on his wing. draw close
to God & he’ll draw
close to you. seek
his face, carrying

comforting rod & staff.
leaving you peace,
heart untroubled

& unafraid. a mighty
right hand upholding
your dust of a body;

withholding no good
thing, though you’re
waiting for what you

do not know. you beg
joy stay warm blanketing
your spring-shy heart.

he says, see i am
doing a new thing—
do you not perceive it?

a furrowed brow
out closed blinds
waiting on invisible

father, son, holy spirit—
three in one God does
you no use unless

you believe

Sometimes when it’s rainy outside & blah, you try writing a poem to music to help distract from pain you feel inside. Except you sing every other song, knowing God wants you to remember he loves you, he’s with you,  holding your right hand. Reminding you’re not alone & he’s closer than the the birdsong. i can feel the hope budding in my soul. April is going to be good month, even though i have no clue what God is doing. I think he maybe wanting me to enjoy the mystery of bot knowing. I’m still a bit nervous. I can’t wait for the warmer weather, and the sunshine, and flowers, and the lavender cake my mom’s going to make (because she’s awesome) for my twenty-fifth (so weird to think about being a quarter of a century old) birthday.

Fall on me as the Spring dew, God, as I recall how you went to death for me, taking all the pain, loss, shame, & come back from the grave with love upon tongue: Put your finger here, and look at my hands. Put your hand into the wound in my side. Don’t be faithless any longer. Believe! Don’t allow doubt to cloud my mind, as Thomas, but let me rest in the promise: you fight for me while I am still. Your scars show I don’t have to be afraid, you don’t abandon those you love/

worth more than furrowed brow

last night, i watched
his eyes dazed
with light. “you’re
funny, Julia,” he
remarked between
boisterous laugh
i glance at his twinkle
before tuening left
to my mother.

“yeah, i should
have my own
comedy show—
The Girl Who Can’t
Go Without Dessert.”

because even though
the pie was lemon &
to-go, his discomfort
split open a genuine


i breathe inward
pain, outward:
residing in

by my side,
sacred your name.
your kingdom come

be still my heart,
willing anxieties knot.

why do i yearn
control today’s events,
tomorrow’s fall—

assuming i am
you maybe i should
buy others penned

sorrow, waiting what
i don’t know. i eat
your word amongst

the time ticker &
noisy refrigerator.
when i am thirsty,

you fill me
with good things.
when anxiety is great

within me, your
consolation brings
me joy, oh God,

lead me not in
pitying thoughts;
nothing will come

of my waiting. i am
too weak, too needy,
for my selfish eyes

to behold such glory.
oh, deliver me from
ill i may soon speak
over my life. wean
my soul, a mother

comforting her child
with milk & words
from the mouth of honey

suckle. for thine is
the power & glory

but he won my grammy

this is how i break—

recalling her stance
at the door of the bedroom,
waiting for me to scrawl out
an address, before pacing
her squeaky white shoes
to the mailbox. the day she
told him: okay, Michael, she
gets it. her experienced
kindness no match for his
repetitiveness: you’re
beautiful, did you know that?
while this boy & i ate
cantaloupe, strawberries,
melon; shyly laughing at
how we were children.
foolish children. over
the phone, “one day
you’ll look back &
wonder what you saw
in him.” followed by
a memory, where she
waited for a man
other than my grandpa
to exit the plane, only
to be led to the conclusion:
what was i thinking. i said,
yeah, trying to envision
someone without the booming
laugh of God, home from a
war or vacation.

FMF Prompt: break. This was written way past 5 minutes. I couldn’t leave the poem at “experienced kindness.” Especially since as soon as I saw the prompt, all of this started talking to me (because memories can talk..) & i’m surprised it lasted through my crazy dreams last night… but, even though, these memories make me feel the sadness just sitting with them, I don’t think this guy could say, “Ah, Lady PlushBottom!” in quite the same overjoyed declaration as my grandpa does. Also, I can’t imagine my grandpa with long hair…  I remember the weirdest details of my life at the oddest times..

warm away the sorrow 


And all that I can do is just converse with you/back against the cross of grace is nothing new.” A thief & three nails–Matthww Mole

The words underneath the lips (which kind of look like a sinking ship) say: Jesus, you don’t need me but you want me–lost, tired, & daily face to face with my depravity – 

I kept trying to draw whatever comes into my head for a different song, but I was called back to this one. I can’t draw lips or mouths. And I find myself continuously drawing suns and bodies of water. I think I must envision that grace. What I will never wrap my head around, but slowly becoming enchanted by. 

His want to love me.

under omnious view 

the back or my head 

gently aches–a pain 

unlike throbbing attention

seeking heartbeats. nownownow;

but that loss of focus. when i am

still, trying to comprehend words,

my brain asks me to stare up 

the white ceiling. & even now, i ignore such a request for productive’s sake. i want to be

on joyous fire, burning passion 

the half colored orange sun in my drawing exhibits. but abandonment expedites my silence before you–

the clock tick tocks without question 

life goes dull.