I imagine a man--
a strong, independent, pack leading figure
Who will always have the strength to carry his own family.
That on his wedding day he will carry his wife to bed
as he is expected to carry his children to theirs every night.

A man will be stern, and respected by those around him
every part of his being will be drawn to our attention.
He will have the heart of lion, the one bearing burdens, as he should
his shoulders will always stand firm, as the red woods have taught him well.

The voice of a man is deeper than the sounds of a bear,
being woken from hibernation.
His cave echos the triumphant's of experience,
as well as the wisdom's of manhood.

Truly a man is the best of his crafts
building treetop castles made of lumber and supplies
never needing instructions as he has it all inside
fixing all that he can fix, forever and always.

Emotionally, unknown--
his tempers sway, a brief signal in the sky, before it is wisped away.
Half grins yearning to resemble his wife and child
tightly holding those he loves in a lingering way--
unspoken is how it goes for a man.

Standing over the porcelain sink,
I find a girl I don’t recognize anymore
staring back at me.
Her eyes are sunken and lifeless.
Her smile has long faded
and her once lively complexion
pale from the lack of sunlight.
I can’t stand to look at my broken self.
Hope and faith are my most elaborate forms of self harm.
With every new hope, I die a little more inside,
because I know that in the end of it all.
My light for life is slowly dissipating as
I am always being brought back to my best friend,
disappointment.

If you stop expecting things
                            Life
                                suddenly
                       ­               becomes a whole lot
                                                                 *easier

if we lived in a castle
would you make me your queen?

if we were rain we would fall on deserts
the poor's thirst to quench

if we were acid
we would be corrosive,harsh and reactive

if i was the moon and you were the sun
i'd borrow your light and make us one.

I yearn for meaningful conversation.
I crave touch.
**** emotions and expectations.
I hold back in fear of being consumed.
Why do I even try?
Destroy or be destroyed.
I can't hide anymore.
You infiltrated me,
I fail at removing you from my bones,
the scars are too intertwined.
I'm abandoned and I shatter,
I fall to pieces.
Utterly alone.

You wanted me to make it bigger, brighter, more beautiful.

You thought noise would draw attention, keep energies focused.  Sometimes it does.

I was doing something different. Building strength in the quiet of routine, in small choices that create habits that become virtue.

I was creating spaces for people to be who they were, in authenticity, and then to know they were loved. Connecting the acceptance of the community with the love of their Creator.

I was creating opportunities for people to share themselves, those things they loved, and the pain. In the sharing: God's provision manifold. Apprenticing people in the mundane and exciting walk of faith.

I was empowering people to lead, because in the leading was also the learning, creating a people who knew how to sustain themselves in faith. And in sustaining themselves they passed on their faith.

I was building confidence in the people, God's people, because confidence combined with authentic human living is unbelievably attractive. We want to know people who live in fullness. Then we want what they want. And that wanting leads people to faith.

I was building depth, stability, sustainability, strength, apprenticeship and faith. And the fruits of my labors show a community more alive in faith because of my work.

I hang up after speaking to a high school friend,
the idea of change and the past few years against the present’s
current creates an overcast in my head, like the nights
I sit outside, searching for the moon.
I’ve found liberty lingers in the harsh smell
of lent cigarettes. It collects in a shot glass, shines
in the eyes of my best friend as 2 AM ticks out
the blame she harbors and my ongoing inadequacies

stemming from the need to please teachers
and parents, my peers, earning me the gentle title
of Class Peach, which held expectations like
amiability and persisting kindness too high
for me to knock off the shelf of reputation.
Academics pushed me, but books and poetry allowed
me to look through the keyhole, a world
where humanity rips off restraints to help
each other become free, encouraging the trip
along white and yellow lines leading to different places.