Unseen, He Cries

I do not live

where a chill

will precipitate flaking

fingers. Not dropping

out from my sockets,

the sky. I will not lie

down, spread my arms

winged motion.

Up. Down. Up.

Down. I will not

laugh childly,

leaving mark upon

the ground I am

found. I will stare

up deep compressing

darkness, asking God,

why is Christmas hard—

why grief meets me

hushed, anxiously petitioning,

please be with me. before

I fall sheepishly under night—

sighing a wish for a birthday

I will not miss. Jesus

slumbering within

His mother’s womb

a fetal prayer

heard by Father

above in groans

interceded intimately.

A Father’s Offering

Alone, the memory comes,

The light above a hospital bed

I laid in, dim above my head.

You said, you need to eat.

Or maybe a question why

I wasn’t hungry. The tray held

a Sunny D, Hi-C, or Capri Sun.

I can’t remember now, but

I know the sandwich in the baggie.

Bolgna, mustard, white bread.

I nibbled, ignoring the burn within

my heart. My legs were as hot

as the sun. I ached moving,

standing, walking, laying.

I was truly disabled,

not knowing Jesus

planned revealing

your child wondering

voice calm, a twinkling

crescent pinky promising

we were children, still.


Author’s Note: After reading this and this, I shed some tears. And was instantly brought back to the summer I had Streptococcus in my legs. No one knew. I remember the wait in the emergency room. Getting a room finally at 11 at night. Him telling me to eat. And the small uneasiness in his voice, letting me know I wasn’t alone in the unknown. I wonder sometimes why this moment is so profound, why it doesn’t let go. I think it’s Jesus’ reminder we truly never grow. No matter how tall, muscular, money in our pockets, stately we are.  In the face of something, a God beyond our control, we are small. Asked  to hold on, believe, even when all circumstance point the opposite  I felt more a child in that week, than I ever remember. I went easy into my father’s, mother’s, whoever else’s arms willingly. I wanted to fight this heat, but I was always so delirious from the medicine. I think this was a time I gave God COMPLETE AND UTTER control. I had to wait and trust, I’was in best hands. It’s the same this Advent, too. We may be still and know He is God. Little Jesus weeping a Savior’s cry, not from hospital bed, but a stabile. Our stability. Forever.

(I’m started to ramble outsitde my poetry, lately. Thanks for sticking around and reading what my mind is like when I try to not be  all: LOOK AT ME FORMING SHOWY SENTENCES?!  It’s a struggle with poetry, so I’m thankful for this space I’m finally letting have my insanity.)

Sincerely, A Bed

She’s sitting on me again.

She’s curled up, cross-legged

underneath all the blankets.

I think she’s afraid.

No, I know –

she isn’t talking.

Not that there’s another

person who can calm

excitement turned worry.

It’s been days, listening,

holding her up as she sobs,

Jesus, why don’t you love me?

Please give me this, oh don’t

give me that—I don’t want to leave,

perform, shame myself again.

This is pitiful, how she doesn’t believe

her beauty isn’t embarrassed cheeks.

I’ve felt her smile touch me, and I

wish I could imitate such a gesture.

Let her know she’s not alone.

I’d hold her forever inside

my warmth, since this Jesus guy

makes her sad, anxious, angry.

She’s been waiting on him for answers.

The tension in her muscles grows

each day, sinch her bones

first sunk into me.

A friend asked if she’d like

going to church.with her tonight.

She seemed rather excited at first.

I mean, a smile came match quick

from what I could tell anyway.

Then, I felt the sigh I know well now—

the slow burnout through ink.

No doubt a poem.

I think Jesus is going to be at this church.

She has been alone, lonely,

even when she’s around people.

If these people ask questions

at this church, she may cry.

She told another girl yesterday,

she’s quiet with everyone.

She’d rather listen.

I wish she would lean

back into me, her burden

I’d take gladly.

Maybe looking up

could bring this invisible

fear breathing room.

Maybe the prayer would find

her lips again:





Her moving thumb to finger

reminding she has nothing to fear

Her Father loves her so.

I want her to see with her heart

how much.

This isn’t me, but Father,

I hate seeing this girl weepy.

Give her reason to smile, laugh again.

There’s no sad face during Christmas season!

Author’s Note: Inspired by this awesome story. Thank you, Kristi! ❤

Save I, Or Save Our?

I can’t shake this word,

appropriately fitting for this season.

Two different spellings

comes heavier this month,

the meaning more than any other.

I don’t know how long I’ve sat waiting

movement past fretting, worrying, crying.

My heart quietly expectant, beats along

while my tongue exploits Peter betrayals.

Over three times,

I’ve said, I don’t want this or that.

I want to cry when music, the holly,

jolly, put those bright shiny lights

around the tree and rejoice!

Santa is coming! plays over

my mind reel memories.

My dad turning on Andy Williams,

only to bust out in loud, joyous voice,

It’s the most wonderful time of year!

Hot chocolate.

Wrapping papper scattered like falling leaves.

A Tony Hawk Playstation 2 game my brother

& I played nonstop, no matter how many times I lost.

I’d get so mad, he’d laugh, but I had such determination.

To cream him.

My brother, sister, & I, seeing The Polar Express

with my grandpa. Mountains of snow piled

on every street corner. Chocolate chip waffles

courtesy of Waffle House afterwards.

Me, my grandpa’s Lady Plushbottom,

riding shotgun through blizzard territory,

wishing the would last forever.

Fast forward to last Christmas,

no buckeyes plastered on cookie sheets

handed out to every laughing family member,

but doughnuts in a bag. Krispy Kreme?

I ate them to fill the void, the apathetic

holding it together during a shot em up, anything

but festive holiday movie void. The headphones,

Chronicles of Narnia, and expensive pen with my

name engraved didn’t do it for me. The temperature

wasn’t quite the tundra, but I sat out there, and said:

Please overwhelm their hearts with Your love.

Joy isn’t in this division, this arguing.

I said, I’d rather stay out here, then go back in there.

When after what felt hours, breathing in & out this prayer,

mom found me, told me to come in. There was food.

I went begrudgingly, watching this movie about prison.

Someone shot another blood red. I ate green beans.

Ham. I kept alternating between looking at the screen,

the floor. Down. Straight ahead. Down. Straight ahead.

I kept sighing, hoping either my mother

or father would hear. If they did, they did not

let on. I wanted to know if anyone else felt

their soul was dying. Their spirit.

Did Jesus mean a thing? I sat back against

the fireplace, keeping quiet, holding on.

Telling Jesus, this feels like dying.

I want Joy again.

And here I am, different circumstance, year,

grief a well, & endless groan

for you, my dear Friend.

When I Lost Faith I Want Back

What I can say

here on this rocking chair,

on this porch, worn by summer heat

You haven’t heard?

Before it breaks my heart,

I’ll speak plainly.

I’ve watched people raise Hell

as if they have the highest privilege

cutting others down with not

sworded edges,

but words.

Do you know anyone who did that?

He did that.

She did, too.

It’s all about her.

I won’t say I haven’t judged,

still catch myself on hardest days

recalling to memory a home

waiting with doors cast wide.

Someone’s smile beaming,

running toward me with sweetest



Days have passed

In laughter’s end,

where I have found myself

mentally whispering: thank you.

I never knew in this desert land,

You’d stay true on Your promise.

I’ll keep your heart young, darling.

I have forgotten what a child does

not lack: faith in Santa Claus.

That wasn’t me.

When I was young,

I would scream, crying for my mother to come wrap me up again.

Take me off his lap.

His beard & ho ho ho

scared me most of all.

No one in the world

can be that joyful

all the time.

That year I found out

my parents were him,

I must have forgot you.

The fear came every Christmas,

still comes to this day.

I make up scenarios that night.

You’ll come down and say:

It’s time to go now.

I cower, crying: I’m not ready!

You take me anyway.

It’s not true, I know.

Rewriting the story of Your little girl,

knowing the death grip, longing

all along she’d save part of herself.

Finding the hard way home

becoming where all of You began.

Let All Sing

a sign came
unto to us a child
shall be born
through the Virgin Mary
to reconcile
our wayward steps
treading darkness
undertow, leading
us by starlight
to a manger
where You lay
swaddled in cloth,
keeping bay winter’s

Brought lowly, so we
could commune in Love,
beginning Christmas until
Heaven’s hallelujah
is our only desire-
sung, reverberating
off every sinner’s lips
inviting everlasting celebration
as Thy kingdom comes.