let it not be

thought that from the damage done

in youth rises the irreversible melancholy of despair

for the Lord is my rock

and my salvation

blessed is he who comes

and many are the angels who encamp

around the innocent who live

on and beyond the hard,

always toward the goal




Strongholds are hard,

risk required

to break the generations

of shame declaring the healing worse

than the barbed wire chains of pride

encircling the light-bearers like hawks

searching for the small, burrow-ers

making their way among the vines and weeds

towards truth.

dear writer…

…what scares you most?

I know them well, the voices

in the mind which begin to whisper,

rant, and rave about your inability and

the impossibility and all the vain

effort you throw at the page

white and raw

gleaming at you like an evil eye, daring

you, try it,

laughing at you, a blank bully

claiming you don’t have a chance. Hush.

Leak scribbles or phrases, vowels and verbs,

nonsense or pretense or suspense

from the end of your pen. Loose it

from doubt-shackles, write to

silence the critics