Monday, July 26, 2010


This poem shows my obvious frustration at the time of writing it (probably 2/3 the way through the internship at IHOP) and this particular night I was struggling with just the simple idea of talking to God and being a person that He created. I'm sure I will struggle and rejoice with/in those ideas the rest of my life and more poems like this one are sure to come.

When I read back over it, the emotion I had then is no longer here (but could arise again quickly I'm sure!) but I love re-reading it because it's very honest. Whenever I write a poem in frustration or anger and it accurately portrays that emotion, it takes some of the frustration and anger away-- I feel like I've been heard...haha. And I can't rest until I've spoken:

Our conversation is pointless--
of what can I inform you of?
Am I not a line in a poem you
wrote who is attempting to convey
to you "where I'm coming from?"
What a joke our dialogue must be to you,
certainly my declarations of independence
are laughable to you, for there exists
nothing that does not come from your womb.
What can two friends discuss, the
one knowing nothing, the other:

On what common ground may
they stand? Is this a silly pun to you?
Or a plea for attention? That your greatest
desire is for all that you made to stand in your
presence telling you things about
yourself that you told them
to tell you? Is that the most you want?
A hall of gratuitous praise?
That we would all shout with one voice
the name that came from you to save us
so that we could shout the same name back to you?
If so, then I am confused about your intentions;
If not, then I do not know for what
I was designed. And again, we stand face to face:
You the substance; me, the mirror. I know nothing
but your reflection on my being, and you are always
insisting on your face for an answer.

Is this how our conversation ends then?
With no real exchange taking place? The words
I say forming only to reveal to myself
how much I don't know. The more I talk
the more aware I become of my ignorance.
My words are painting the face of my unknowing.
Thus, the only real sentence I can
give you of my own making is my silence.

Poems from my time at the House of Prayer in KC

I have been hiding away from the Internet for the last couple of months and have missed posting new poems. I did a three month internship with the International House of Prayer in Kansas City. I was expecting to write many poems while I was there but I couldn't...poems just didn't happen there like they used to, I'm not sure why. I realized that it's hard for me to write in anything but complete silence. But there were a few times when I was able to get away to some silent places (this was hard!) or occasionally I would write them in the prayer room. The next couple of posts will be from that time. Here is one:

I love you Lord. I'll
love you to the end.
Till the sun sets for the last time
and that big star of death
falls into your hands.
I'll love you till the seas
fold up and the mountains
fall into valleys;
until the sons and daughters
of Adam and Eve
turn their heads and notice;
I'll love you to the beginning.

Saturday, March 20, 2010


I was flipping through my journal from when I traveled around parts of Europe this summer and I found some poems I wrote. As I typed it up I edited it quite a bit-- I tend to do that...but it still says the same thing.

I'm dedicating this one to my brother, because while I was there I kept thinking I wished he were with me because he would have loved Oxford so much-- and now he is going to study abroad there this summer! How cool is that? So brother, forget silly trinkets and such, just be sure you bring Oxford back for me...k?

Can I Take You With Me?

Oxford, will you fit in my backpack?
I want to stuff your castle-cut walls
somewhere between my clothes and
souvenirs. I walk your paths
hoping to never find what I'm looking for--
an answer to the mystery
of beauty and knowledge. You look at me
with eyes that see my kind every day:
those who desire to snatch you up like
a jewel thief and sneak you back to Georgia
so I can brake you out at night and
and dance around your muses.
But my backpack is heavy,
and customs are tight.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

It Depends on Your Thermometer

You’ve wrecked my internal thermostat.
The cold is hot and the heat is chilly.
I’m wrapping up in blankets and
afghans to the sound of lawn mowers
and fresh-out-of school kids asking
for money. I’m taking medicine
to avoid addiction, and sleeping
in to remember the day—looking
for signs to know life is more
than extraordinary—formed
in the palm of a poor boy’s
dad as he bounces him on his knees.
“Am I just one more mouth to feed?”
I ask as I fast and fast until I throw up.
Ripping off my blanket you
expose me to the humidity.
And now I’m left to eat to
starve myself from you.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010


I, like a slave,
eat dirt; pull a
cart with my teeth,
pick up worms with
my toes, carry loads
and loads and loads.
I’ve heard of the
Master’s son—
freed all the slaves.
But I’m still plowin' your
fields, I was bred
working this land.
Don’t you tell me go--
tell me wait. My yoke
fell heavy on me at
birth, my feet to the
rows, my hands to the

Wednesday, February 24, 2010


You surprised me when you
bloomed in front of me.
Your petals revealing color
I didn’t know was there.
I was too anxious to notice you
at first, in the middle of a crowded street--
extending stem beside me.

I had my eyes closed tight in
repetitious prayer,
but your bright color caught me
off guard.

I would have worried less
had I seen sooner
the rose I now hold
so gently in my chapped hands—
it is mine to keep.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Is this Flying?

I flounder like a bird trying to
possess the wind—desperately
clutching the air with my wings
and falling into valleys.
If I could only believe the
air I grasp is for me to fly on instead,
I would stretch and let all
my belongings go--
reaching impossible mountains
while singing joyfully,
“They were never mine anyway.”