The Covering

frost crystals

She wrapped her naked soul in frost,

Afraid of being known;

But hiding came at bitter cost –

This skin was not her own.

She lost connection to her core

As frozen walls were raised;

The warmth of Love could melt, restore,

So she could live unglazed.







Ready, Set, Grow

hoarfrosted grass

Where tears met the fog,

Your armour grew –

Negligee wrapping

Pain in more palatable form,

Deflecting eyes from

Bones brittle as death.

If you allow the Light

To strip you naked

(Sinews and seams

Bruised and bare)

Your genuine

Can grow.

The Superhero


Even her loose ends are frayed.



messy –


She’s finally discarded the cape

that gave her missions impetus,

along with her illusions

of  being able to save anyone but herself.

She walks with a limp,

but the scars scab over

now that they are allowed air.

Her gait,

like the end of her rope,

is damaged –

but a new authenticity lends

dignity to torn edges,

beauty to fragmented spirit.

She owns not just her strengths

but her brokenness;

its tangles are a net

spread over troubles seas,

catching unexpected graces

too numerous and astounding to be named or counted.

Chaos has lent her courage,

counted her among the genuine,

labelled her approachable,

and that makes her

a Superhero.

Bare Bones Beauty


Little by little,

she’s really losing it.

All that carefully applied foundation,

the layers of tint and frost,

the people-pleasing

and do-gooding,

the hours in front of a mirror

that forgot to reflect who she really was,

lay discarded on the cutting room floor.

The energy it took

to hold the fake coverings in place

has come for its final accounting;

naked and vulnerable,

her true form peeks through –

and those who see are stunned

at her bare bones beauty…



Shattered, skin begins to peel,

Fractured, neurons fail to feel;

Fragments blister, lose their grip,

Smithereens abandon ship.

Underneath, as  damage heals,

skin is soft, and raw, and real;

Tree lets go of what was dead

to grow in grace and truth instead.


What if I, in seeking bloom

And beauty of my own,

Chose to let the Sonlight leak

Through skin, and flesh, and bone;

Umbrella of unusual form,

Transparent, not opaque –

To all the souls beneath my care,

What difference that would make!



risk being

burned when you

turn soul to sun.


lay all on

love’s line when

you don’t wear your



skin is exposed

and you don’t use

your lotion…


face life

stripped down,

 and you make me