This is poetry I have written
I wait
Centered in the cacophonous rush 
Listening intently
For quiet sounds to emerge
Rising above to ensnare me
Releasing me into multicolored prisms
Joy intertwines itself with life
I swirl in multidimensional shafts of light
Delivering me from the inharmonies of life
Here I want to reside
Worldy stings pull at me
Bringing me back to earth
I am left between the joy of living and the overwhelming tsunamis of life
But I am not alone.
Never have been.
Never will be.
Fall
burnt orange, bright yellow, vanishing green, dirt brown
roll one after another
chasing each other
the s t a c a t o sound
turning my mind around
chasing after those colors
that fade into the black and white
of crisp cold air
His Call Familiarity
He called me
And I didn’t hear. A sense of being
He called me
And I heard. Inherent
He calls me
And I listen. To the point
He calls me
And I write. Home
Just some sayings
There is no spiritual conflict – when conflict arises it is people conflict – people drama.
Relish in the grace and gifts children have; they were once our own.
Children clean and edify the church. Through them comes our growth.
Communication is more than what comes from my mouth. More importantly it comes from my heart.
I remember Grandma DeKezel,
her colostomy bag full and oozing.
I remember smiling and chattering
and easing her discomfort
of being dependent upon my hands.
I remember her talk of sex
and the loathing she had when Grandpa
would touch her – until she was 30.
I remember the smile sliding across her face
the twinkle in her eyes
as she yearned for Grandpa then.
Sex was not a sin.
I remember her finger pointing at the cabinet
“Take the white China with the yellow flowers.
Count it all and be sure it’s there.”
And I remember nodding no,
“Keep it until next time I am here.”
I remember the silent, arguing stares
over disappearing treasures
before she was laid to rest.
I remember the harsh words zinging overhead
because her children didn’t finish unfinished words
in the space of her ensuing death.
I remember the chasm created
in the wake of her death.
I remember thinking
“They lost the chance to know their mother
in the grace of ensuing death.”
“They lost the chance for her to speak unspoken words
that could not be said.”
My memory will never forget
knowing my grandma
Faith Journies 