As so often happens, life took priority over poetry. Indeed, I fear this is one of the reasons I am not destined to be the
Category: Poetry
I. The Man with the Withered Hand (Mark 3:1-6)
My bones ache with hunger.My eyes strain from seeking.But seeking what? Waiting for what?For nothing,For who would help me today?This is the sad irony of
Immediately: Poetry for the Gospel of Mark
In studying the Gospel of Mark in college, I was struck by the recurrent use of the word “immediately” and turned to poetic reflection. Now,
No Silent Night Was This
Sweet “Stille Nacht” is but a prayer;No silent night was this, When angel hosts announced on highThe birth of God with Us. Holy, yes, but
Conjunction
Unlike that lone first star of Christmas nightThis union burns expectedly above, But like that light, this, too, shines highest, brightAnd may still testify of
Thank Goodness for the Laundry Pile
My work has gone mostly remote again, which at first was something of a relief. After barely a day of emails instead of interaction, though,
