Trouble in this world, a poem

I suppose faith would indeed be seen as weak,

those who pity us 

who rely on the unseen. For true strength

rises up on the wings of broken 

hearts and flesh, invisible

not because of what we have done but

because of who HE is.

the true

pity is for the ones who do not know

who cannot see the goodness 

in the land of the living,

who cannot help

but mock and reopen the stripes of the 


who died for even them. No 

justice comes 

from arguing about the shade of red to a blind man.

And so we traipse 

on, the bruised and weary land

I love thirsting for the one drink

they refuse to taste.


savor. an autumn poem. 


eases in, the first

stain of pink like heat

in the cheeks of someone sensing

the tug of lust, 

wanting but in fear

of the harsh winter

to come.

the writers group. a poem.

like the uncertainty of an approaching storm

the staccato tap of fingers on keys

plays a scattered beat. I wonder

if that is the sound of

the soul

revealed like sign language,

the give

and take

battle of life