How can I dare to lift my pen and try to capture
what Your own hand has created?
You, who danced on the waters
when there was naught
Yet You lacked nothing
in Your perfection.

How can my brush hope to portray
that which Your own hand has designed?
You, who formed the heavens and the earth
Who pushed waters from waters,
mountains from valleys,
light from darkness,
and said “It is good.”

How can my voice hope to sing
of that which You spoke into existence?
You, who breathed life into the stars,
the waters,
the earth and sky alike
Whose laughter bellowed through the cosmos
and delighted in the simplest wonders,
the most intricate marvels,
joyous all the while.

The only portrait I can cultivate
while doing Your creation justice
is myself.
I, whom Your own hand has crafted,
whom You Yourself breathed life into
every fiber of existence I call my own
I, who bear Your image
Your mark
I am all I can offer
for it is what You have given me.

And You say “It is very good,”
for this is all You desire.

When I was a young girl
I told myself
I wanted someone to hurt me so badly
to break me so tangibly
that they would see the error of their ways
and never revert to them again.

I never expected this wish to be granted.

Here I am, a woman grown,
who has had her sensitivities
neglected
pushed aside
forgotten
by the men whom she holds closest to her heart.
I trust
and I know the risk
but I trust
and when my heart is hurt
my anxieties prodded
I trust
that they've seen me beaten,
defeated,
pushed to the point of tears
by their own hands.

May my injuries prove the necessity for these boys
to become men.

Maybe this
is the look
of fading intimacy--

As we continue
to light candles
gold flickers on
dimly-lit tableware
Bread (the same as always)
still needed
still sacred

Still.

Time is where
the ties that bind
are woven
over and under
a basket
meant to carry
budding life
through denial

--Intimacy faded,
but not away:
rather, blazing affection
morphed into subtlety,
into routine
like breathing:
as you think,
you struggle,
so best to let the body
do the work
it was made for.

To be this close
is to recognize only your body
your breath
your words
for any Other
is close enough
to be completely entwined,
enraptured,
captivated.
To separate
is to die
and this partnership
is life itself.

When passion cools
may strength be seen
in what is not heard.

At first I was disappointed
when I saw rain give into sun.

But I looked to the West
and was met with blood orange sinking into the pine.

Blue bled into pink
as charioteers ushered spools of golden fleece
beyond the horizon.

Gray seas hollowed and waned in turn-
slowly, slowly,
cresting and sweeping with yellow foam in their wake.

A deep blue East has carried the precipitation elsewhere,
but the sweet scent of possibility lingers.

Tomorrow, or tomorrow's morrow
may bring the rain.

For now, the sun will do.

You let me hunger
so that I
starve for You-
without You, die.

You let me hunger
so I know
upon my heart
You want to sow.

You let me hunger
so I feel
satisfaction
when I kneel.

You let me hunger
so I see
priceless Love
upon that tree.

You let me hunger
so I seek
Your strength when
my will is weak.

You let me hunger
so my heart
knows from it,
You'll never part.

You let me hunger
because You thirst
for me to always
love You first.

Lord, I am hungry.
Fill me up
with your Flesh-Bread
and Life-giving Cup.

Lord, I am hungry.
Let me starve.
Upon my heart
Your trademark carve.

Lord, I am hungry.
Thank you, though.
For without hunger
I'd never know
how much I filled
my life with things
that dull Your brilliance
and make kings
of worldly pleasures.
Let me crave
Your Word alone
and help me brave
this war of willpower.
Pave the way
to Your Kingdom
for there I'll stay
for all eternity
if I
let You consume me
till I die.

I cling
to my vice
because it is
the only constant
in a world
that seems to move on
without me.

To stand still
is to fall back.

Back into that hole
I've been living in.
Not stuck,
for I have always
been capable
of calling for help.

But I have been called higher,
deeper,
cleaner.

My new constant
should be the knowledge
of my struggle.
I am free to refuse,
to stay still,
but at what cost?

My sanctity
will cost me
everything.

I am not
the version of myself
that will be called
holy
heroic
courageous
I am called to conversion
day, after day,
after day.

Teach me to wade.
I can't swim,
so guide me in
to my ankles
my knees
my waist

Prepare my lungs
to be submerged
for I can't stand
on dry land
much longer.

My purity
lies past the horizon
and, little by little,
I will make my way.

Things will never
truly be greener
on the other side--
there's just
different grass.

Tend to your own garden
and pay your friend's
a visit,
for company is what
makes things
flourish.

If I am
a woman of abundance
speaking fluent excess
in a time where
nothing
is denied
what do I become
when the borders
are closed
to the land
I promised myself?

Pigeonholed into
this sense of security
seeing myself
through one-half
of the monocle
--wasted tension,
then, if twice-effort
produces half-sight--
Where do I go
to find myself
when the only door
I knew
is shrouded
in second-hand screens?

I will rise-
for comfort has made
apaths of us all

I will rise-
realizing these bones
ache under the weight
of collected burdens

I will rise-
vision adjusting
as perspective changes
from lower life
to heavenward glances
too dry
too bright
too foreign to the naked eye

And yet
this simplistic wealth
contradicts itself
in losing, we hope
to gain
in leaving, we hope
to find

So I will rise-
embracing the new abundance
of having nothing
except All.

I gave you my fries
Knowing that I was hungry
Yet I died to self

When we were younger-
especially when we were particularly heinous-
you would tell us
that if it came down to it
you would choose our mother
over us
every
time.

Is it any wonder why
I can't
trust you?

What kind of a man says
he would leave his daughters in a heartbeat
if it meant supporting their spouse?
What man settles for one over the other
when both are his to protect?

None of us asked to be begotten.
None of us asked to be abandoned.
You were there
but you were there for her.
Now I look to other men
for the security I should have been able to find in your arms.

Those hands should have been used for more than discipline;
they should have been extended time after time,
mistake after mistake,
loaning us your strength
instead of administering it.

I'm too tired to argue.
I just need you to know
why I feel this ocean between us
even when we're closer than ever
to dry land.

What was it like in your garden, Lord?
Untouched by sin,
innocence in the very air we breathed,
the water we drank,
the soil you created us from.
You created us from the ground up,
from the side of another,
to be beside one another.

How did we live in your garden, Lord?
We were children.
You held our hand
we laughed, we talked, we played with you
created for you
your waters bathed us when we were soiled.
We soiled everything
we were misled
this led to our downfall.

How did he enter your garden, Lord?
Was this meant to be a sanctuary,
were we to be wary?
We knew and ignored
we were bored
we were children
knowing neither of good nor evil,
wanting to be like you.
He made us
You made us
and yet we chose wrong.

Were we to hide in your garden, Lord?
You knew every inch of it
you knew something was different
did regret once cross our minds?
Did we know what we had done?
We became undone
once naked without shame
we put the blame on each other
desperate for cover

We were banished from your garden, Lord,
now ravaged by sin.
Pain echoes within
without you by our side.
Father and Mother
bore brother and brother
uncover the damage done
by the eldest son
am I my brother’s keeper?
Deeper, deeper in debt we grew,
the wages of sin a tab on humanity
this insanity did not end with us.
    
Would this have happened in your garden, Lord?
Can we ever return to your garden, Lord?

And just like that--
like a cold snap
crashing through
a summer's eve--

I am above
temptation.

As those words
cross my mind
I realize
this stable footing
I've pridefully conjured
proves to be no more
than a tightrope
tauntly strung
over that very same chasm
I've stumbled into
far too often.

Step
by step
is the only way.

Although I know
the stakes are high
I can't help
but look up
and smile.

Praise and blessings
that I
do not have
to walk alone.

I've never been homesick.
I've been “home-sick”--
carrying that hunk of lead in the pit of your stomach
as your time away comes to an end.
Back to routine,
back to routine.
Not to be mean
but I want to take my roots
and plant them elsewhere
time, after time, after time.
Because you have to come back to your roots.
But this plant is rotting from the bottom up,
reaching for the sun with a weak foundation
and I don't want to fall.

I've never been homesick.
But I've been so sick of the droll,
the toll,
the tax I didn't know I had to pay
for the sake of community.
But where's the common unity
if the clockwork pieces
move farther apart
with every passing hour?
Our time is coming,
but I don't know what will transpire.

I've never been homesick.
I've been sick-
sick of wanting to be sick
so I can stick to faulty sympathy--
faulty because I need to grow.
Faulty because I need to know
I can go it alone
without these training wheels
I can't detach
because guess who can't afford
half the tools she needs
since she spent it all on comfort?
It's how I was raised:
substitute praise
with a trifle,
a trinket,
a treat.
We only eat
to fill the holes we dig for each other
while father, sister, mother
spiral down-- farther, farther,
until we forget what we’re burying.

I've never been homesick.
I don't have a home to miss
(not yet) because I've never been
I've never seen
where I'm meant to reside
for the rest of my life.
My home is farther than I can reach
so I strive for heavenly speech
to mimic the local dialect.
Maybe someone will detect
that I'm lost
I can't get there just yet
but I'm homeward bound.

How can you write what you feel,
What you know,
When you don’t?
How can I keep the words from running dry
When I’m wasting time trying to squeeze them
From the inkwell of my mind?

I am not an artist,
I am a student.

And yet everything I’ve learned
Seems to fail me.
Rhymes, meter, imagery:
Why do I know these things
If I can’t use them myself?

I am not an artist,
I am an observer.

This problem is not rare
And yet as I write about not writing
I write.
My lack of a story
Is a story itself.
Thinking is the enemy
And in this head of mine
My foe flies at me relentlessly.
Sometimes a mind overflowing with thoughts
Can hurt more than an imagination run dry.
Yet the pain only fuels me.

I am not an artist,
But I could be.

Someday I'll have good news to share.
I'm sorry that I only tell
the parts of me I want to tear
away and send to burn in hell.

My life is a bit complex--
work and school and family
pull at me, and make me vex
my friendships and my ministry.

My body is shutting down;
I can't keep up with myself.
Sorry that I always frown
when my heart comes off the shelf.

Trust me: I want nothing more
than to be a better me
but I'm still a bit unsure
what the end result would be.

I just want to share my heart,
to share what I keep inside
but, for now, I cannot start
until in peace I will reside.

I can't give what I don't have
(it's quite sad, but it is true)
I can't split myself in half
while my parts are still askew.

Yes, I want to love you well,
but I'm not in a good place
to seek what makes my heart swell--
I'd be lying to your face.

This life isn't permanent--
I am still transitioning
into whomever I'm meant
to be living as, freely.

Careful, love,
that you are not
too well-guarded,
sounding high alerts
until no one
dares approach
your gates.

Mind not to wind
yourself too tight
out of fear
to let loose
some brittle flaw
until you splinter
and shatter.

A closed fist
a lover never made--

Loosen your grip
on your expectations
of the audience,
and simply play
your part.

Come curtain,

we may
surprise
each other.

It’s interesting:
you can spot a fallen-away Catholic
by the language they use-
once learned, it can’t be taken away.
Catholicism leaves an indelible mark
on the tongue,
a pattern in the script.
People jaded,
wounded,
even rejected by wayward sheep
and wolves in their skin
bear the same brilliance
the same cry for understanding.
The Shepherd didn’t meet their expectations,
or maybe they’ve abandoned all belief in His existence.
No matter the qualm,
they all bleat the same.
There’s no removing the brand of baptism,
the vocabulary of vocations.
Even if a wall has been built
between them and the Church,
they still write the creed of their Fathers on its bricks.

This is not a reprimand,
nor a criticism;
it is a hand outstretched
to all who broke away.
It is a voiced desire
to teach
and learn
by their side.
This life does not hold all the answers,
but we can pursue Knowledge Himself
and reach the peak together.

I hate that I miss you.
No-- I don't hate it;
It just seems trivial.

I missed you this summer,
then you came back.
Now you're gone again,
and I'm anxious for you
to come home.

I say "home"
as if we built it together
but in a way, it's true
None of this would be the same without you.

I'll never claim to own you;
You are free. Be so.
I only know
there's an echo of longing
for you to return.

I didn't plan to miss you,
yet here we are.
Just know that when you return,
in the moment allotted,
I'll cling to you
and cry out with my embrace
how I wish you wouldn't go
again.

Love for love.
Love for love's sake.
Love for the promises
you know you'll break.
Love for the way
you feel empty inside.
Love for the bitter,
cold tears you have cried.

Love because you know
it's all you can give.
Love because you have
just one life to live.
Love because you will
make many mistakes.
Love because you know
how hard your heart breaks.

Love in spite of
the distractions and cares.
Love in spite of
all these earthly affairs.
Love through the suffering.
Love through the pain.
Love through the fear
of ne'er seeing light again.
Love though your joy
has all but disappeared.
Love though your prayer
seems to fall on deaf ears.

Love because you have
been counted as whole.
Love because it's ingrained
into your soul.

Love for love.
Love what is true.
Love because it has
been done unto you.

Am I lovely?
I know I'm loved,
I'm lovable,
I'm loving.
But am I lovely?
Am I delightful?
Am I truly cherished?
If not now, will I ever be?
Will anyone ever call me Their Love,
Their Delight,
Their Cherished One?
Will I ever be found in Your heart?
Am I what anyone will pursue?
Will anyone fight for me?
Will anyone feel like a man
by being with me?

Jesus, am I lovely?
Will I ever be the princess,
will I be a part of the narrative?
Will my beauty ever be unveiled?
Will anyone ever want to know my heart?

I know I’m not too much,
I know I’m more than enough,
but am I lovely?

When will my love return from the war
she fights in her own heart?
When will my darling turn and see
I have been waiting patiently
for her to simply return to me
and from my side ne’er part?

When will my darling cease and desist
her spirit's self-destruction?
When will my lover place the blame
on the serpent that causes shame
to arise when she succumbs to his game
of building betwixt us obstruction?

When will my lover fight to stay
within my heart forever?
When will my beloved soulmate seize
the empty fillers meant to please
her without sacrifice, with ease,
and abandon me never?

My beloved soulmate’s will,
compared to Mine, is weak.
She cannot help it; this is just
how she was fashioned. She can trust
in my love. But my heart she must
make every effort to seek.

I have never
borne a child.

But there is
a part of me
that craves
the catharsis
of seeing something
so delicate
and pure
and so much
a part of myself
come from within,
from a place
of love.

Some days
I wonder
how I could have
ever been trusted
to bring up
something so good
(in humility)
with so much beauty
(in modesty)

every moment
it begs
for truth--
how could I not
give this little one
my name?

Other days
the roles are reversed
and suddenly it is
my fears that
are comforted
my tears that
are dried
my passion,
confusion,
or other outburst
borne with grace
on the page--
in these moments
the begetter
is held together.

No,
my children are not
flesh and bone
but rather
heart and soul

and my job
is to prepare them
to go out
and change
the world.

Starlight, star bright,
How can I reach you tonight?

It's just a patch of moonlight-
square, pale, ghostly beam
peeks through the curtain
onto my bedspread.
I hollow out a space for it
on my mattress.
I open my palm and let the
nightlight hold me.
With this, I sleep.

Daylight, day bright,
How can I bring you delight?

It's just a patch of sunlight-
soft, blurry, prism beams
cascade from the dome of glass
onto my resting place.
I gaze at pinks and purples,
greens and yellows,
scores of rainbow fleets
spilling onto these pages.
I open my palm
and let a white light warm me.
With this, I dream.

When I hear you
talk about
"forever,"
it makes me
wonder
if the big, wide world
could ever compare
to this tiny room
or me and you.

You
make me want
to be
infinite

--even if infinity
looks like Tuesday nights
and lukewarm beer
singing drunken carols
while planning for all
our projects in one go--

If I could
live forever
in this small monotony,
I suppose
there are worse
ways to never
die.

How do I love You?
How have I loved You?
You shower me with gifts, with praises, with affection,
and I can't even give You the time of day.

I ask, I seek, I knock,
and You provide.
Why can't I do the same for You?

You ask to drink from my heart,
to let my tears quench Your Thirst.
How can I withhold?

You seek me in the wilderness,
in the darkness I shroud myself in.
How can I stay hidden?

You knock on the door of my heart,
my sanctuary,
to fill it with Your Life and Love.
How can I keep it shut?

I've whispered through the keyhole,
pressed my hand to Yours through the wood.
But why did I neglect to turn the ****?

Please don't go.
I haven't forgotten You.
I'm still on the other side of this door.
If You knock,
I promise I'll answer.

This robin keeps staring at me
Why?
What intrigues him so?
Is it my red coat?
Kindred spirits are we,
Sitting in the breeze.
We stop.
We stare.
We both have things we could be doing
Yet he runs
And I think
My mind feels like this Robin,
who now swells his chest as he walks.
I'm distracted
Flitting from one thought to another
as if danger lurked beneath every leaf
and a worm under every stone.
The Robin has since rejoined his flock
I should go home
My nest needs attendance
Yet the Robin still stares
Farewell, new friend
whom I can no longer distinguish from the others.
Enjoy your worms
and keep your red chest full
of life
and curiosity.

It wasn't the most delicious nap,
but the afterglow is delectable.

Rested eyes still see the world softly,
not quite tired
(not quite tired)
but barely stirring.

The wind in my breast
echoes a familiar sigh
at the caress of the afternoon breeze
Not quite sunny
(not quite sunny)
but the thunder seems hesitant.

Lay awake.
See all through sepia and softness.
Revel in the care,
the air.

And tonight,
rest easy.

My cup runneth over.

Beauty swells within--
where can it go?
Every outlet
has yet to develop
the capacity
emotion
wasted
or so it would seem
so I don't try
I grasp
aim to contain
like clutching swallows
anxious to soar
but each branch
is brittle
or green
there is no in-between
if thought was to fly
I fear thought would die.

This is where beauty
drowns in its own tears.

I’ve always cried in secret.
Not by choice;
I just never seem to be noticed
when my heart breaks,
my body quakes,
my resolve is torn asunder.
I never receive the pity
I feel I deserve.
With a twisted face
and clenched fists
I try to hold back
unsightly sobs and gasps for air.

I’m never noticed,
but maybe it’s better that way.
Brokenness is ugly,
and my shards are jagged.

You’re no stranger to this.
They see Your Crown,
Your Side,
Your Hands and Feet.
But people forget
that You carried the Cross
that bore Your Body for hours on end.
They forget
that the Flesh was torn
and every step dug deeper
into Your Shoulder.
They whipped You,
they beat You,
they spat and ridiculed
But the pain of the Cross was constant.
There was no relief
from lifting and dragging
that torturous wood.
Dislocated and raw,
how can they not remember
the deepest Wound of all?

Is that why You gave me
my Wound, Lord?
Is it because I know
how it feels to have pain
not easily recognized?

Let me kiss your Wound, Lord.
Let me clean it and hold it
to my own.
Let me endure my pain
as You did:
with grace and compassion
with strength and integrity
Let me bear my Cross
as You bore Yours.

Lima has my heart
I was loved by these children
Until it hurt me

I don't speak Spanish
Yet they laughed and played with me
They called me their friend

Playground encounter
I thought I'd never see them
But the Lord provides

The hardest goodbye
Was to the mob of children
Kissing me farewell

Why do you love me?
We can't talk, I won't be back
Why are you so pure?

I will miss you all
Each of you has touched my heart
More than you can know

Hold me in the rain.
Press your warm back to me and guard me from the storm
as we watch mist turn to showers turn to torrents.
Watch the lightning streak the sky with all my favorite hues.
Let me breathe into your shoulder
and wish for an eternal moment.

Dance with me in the rain.
Take my hand and run into the street
as we embrace the heat of the summer sky.
Spin me, dip me, hold me
as we laugh and shout and splash
No cares for shoes or hair
in this moment.

Kiss me in the rain.
Let your hands cradle my face
and press your lips to my forehead, nose, cheeks,
lips.
Sweetly, sweetly, sweetly,
as if the storm around us was but fog
as if the lightning above was but a limelight
as if the puddles at our feet were but dry land.
As if nothing else matters outside this moment.

Love me in the rain.

I had a dream once
You were driving, your last love in the front seat.
I sat in the middle.
Your hair looked different.
Suddenly you met across the armrests
and I had to watch as you kissed passionately,
speeding down the interstate,
totally engrossed in her lips.
I woke up:
chest pounding,
face flushed,
heartbroken.
But it wasn't real.

I had a dream once
We were in a room with a congregation
They began to pray for a fallen Knight
who passed away two years ago.
I bowed my head.
Suddenly I felt your hand on mine.
Your head was low,
you didn't look at me,
but you grasped me like a lifeline.
I placed my hand on top of yours,
and you covered that one as well,
more relaxed but still distraught.
We held each other.
We prayed together.
I woke up:
chest pounding,
face flushed,
heart swelling.
But it wasn't real.

One feels different after a fall from grace.
I say "fall", but I know
that I peered over the cliffside
knowing what I was to leave behind
and took the deadly plunge.

The haze of temptation cleared
I felt nothing
Knew everything
Wanted more
God, why have I abandoned You?
Why do I know so much
yet feel so little
when I know where You are?

I'm falling
I'm failing
I'm thirsty

"I thirst for you."

Even in the depths I hear You
Even in the darkness I see You
You who defeated Death for me
You who could not bear to be apart from me
You who are still on the cross
until the end of time.

"I thirst for you."

I thirst for You.
I've reached for filler after filler
Only leaving myself empty
Rendering new cracks in the already broken vessel that I am
Yet You who suffered wounds for me
still desire my heart.
Why do You want this broken sparrow?
Why do You want this sickly fawn?
Why is my love-
broken and imperfect
-the very thing You crave?

"I thirst for you."

Drink, then, from my tears
of repentance
of regret
for they are all I can offer
as I continue to fall.
Drink from this broken vessel
from whom graces seep out
for I have marred my soul
and have broken Your Heart.

Drink from my sin
and my shame
and repair what I have broken
Help me, for I am alone
and have no one but You
Even though I've abandoned You
You are all I crave
You are all I need
And I thirst for You.

I refuse
to hate
the sum
of my
parts.

I will not
despise how
my heart
decides to love--

she is
trying
her best.

Open light--
reveal the silhouette of morning.

Open still--
see every tuft we wish upon.

Open still--
count prismed dewdrops.

Open still--
awaken hearts at dawn.