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.

Morning Breaks


Morning breaks –

breaks night’s grip,

crushing darkness.

Breaks nightmare worlds

and midnight prowls.


evening’s despair

and twilight’s angst.

The break of day

brings such beauty,

such hope,

such clarity –

should not the breaking of me

as Morning Star rises

bring beauty?

Let dark

and decay

and fear

and despair

once be broken,

and I will rise

with the Son

on the wings of the dawn,


brilliantly lit,

whole and holy.

Let morning


Alive and Kicking

Which is more alive?


you need to know when to fold,

when to halt the forward momentum.

The irony bleeds on blades of steel –

blooming is most profitable

when ground to a halt;


in the secret places,

seeds are knit from

crisping petals,

distended ovaries,

dried husks of youth.

Once the shell of beauty is ceremoniously cracked,

rendered useless,

torn limb from limb

in ferocious labour pains,

what spills from broken caskets is

Alive and Kicking…

Breaking Through

The Breakthrough was breathtaking in its

unexpected triumph;

its mysterious arrival threw

Darkness to the curb

in a show of superiority rarely seen

in her years of travail.

She hadn’t known that

Breakthrough, by necessity,

required Breaking;

it was this Brokenness

that had forced her face into

all the corners where

filth of failure

and cobwebs of compromise

had woven their deep magic

over her soul.

And oh, how she fought!

Her marrow resisted the broken pieces

and Denial’s wooing almost won her over;

but here,

on her knees,

she sees the way Through

that the Breaking redeemed.

Her tears rinse the decay

as her soul stirs,

cracks the chrysalis,

and Breaks Through to

dance in the


Broken Blooms

Broken blooms, please don’t cry,

This stormy wind will soon pass by,

And in your hearts, you must decide

If blooming’s worth the pain.

Broken blooms, your value holds,

Even when life’s loss unfolds;

Though trouble’s tragic wearing scolds,

Your worth is your refrain.


A crutch for your foot,

A cane for your knee,

I’ll sign your cast for your neighbours to see.

A mechanized chair

And a ramp for your door,

A tablet to take when your muscles are sore.

A stick when you’re blind

And an aid for your ear,

Glasses and lenses when vision’s unclear.

A band-aid for blood

And a note on your chart –

But what do I do when the hole’s in my heart?

Image came from here.