Not The One

I watched and waited, wondering

Why you willfully wished me away.

Wasn’t I worthy?

Wasn’t I wary?

For once unguarded

I believed you would choose me.

For once I wished I was the one

You want, no less, no more

Than your pleasure.

But, as I watched and waited,

As I wondered if you would remember,

It dawned on me in white waves.

Like washing my soul with pebbles.

Not your choice, not the one.

Not the wish you waited for,

Or the companion of your pleasure.


For Promising Poets

I’m So Glad You Love Me

Unveil my eyes.

Bury your world deep inside me.

Waft your sweet Spirit’s fragrance past my nose.

Let me taste the refreshment of your fruit,

And offer its bounty to a hungry world.

Sing over me a chorus of your glory and affection.

Be more real than me, myself.

Excise and destroy my unbelief.

Press me deeply into you

Until we are more one than two.

Salty Fairytale

Once upon a time

EverAfter sounded like hell.

Days much longer on

clay-cracked earth

Resounding death knell.

I fell defeated to my knees

Slipping down through

Hopeless days.

There was you.

Pitched forward, I expected

To fall forever.

There was you

Who caught my feeble hands.

For a time I yet knew

Nothing but the salt of

 My own tears,

Denied, stubborn love.

Nothing’s changed.

My world still cracks and sways.

But pitched forward, I lean

Into stable arms and lend-ed breath.

LIke a fairytale

I stand in the embrace

Of everafter.

Clasped in the arms

 Of eternity’s King.

Cracked, clay earth

A scarce memory.

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White Rose

A winter white rose

Lingers brazen.

As if she dares the pending snow

to steal her royal garb.

Ringed with velvet petals

Her heart is crazy bold.

As if she holds off passing time

She chafes against the cold.

Frailer blooms have bowed their heads.

Surrendered bloom

To dark and murderous winter’s doom.

The season’s taken many things

It’s chill-expected toll.

Her fragrance wanes.

Her spine now curves in weakened pain.

With dignity she wakes each morn

Single tear-petals drip past thorns

On their journey to the ground.

One winter white rose

lingers proud.

Know’s not her season to expire.

Wakes each morn with lovely valor.

Father’s Bible

Life lies dormant.

Salvation writhes between closed pages.

Aged, old of fathers’ past,

“Obsolete,” accuse the ignorant.


Red words bleed between the lines,

Of promises aged, old

Sworn by a Father of no beginning.


Thick, shimmery leaves

Opposite loosed, leather binding.

Tattered from a history of love.


A name worn from its face

Declares value to treasuring fingers.

Aged, old, now gone.


Slipped form limbs and belligerence

To a world promised

Sworn by a Father of no genesis.

Composed for Gooseberry Garden weekly poetry challenge.

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