Thick Skin

Not newborn skinpuddle ice, this.

Calloused, thick,

Barrier excludes blood

From heart of stone

Lest it beat and fulfill its function.

Stubborn film rejects sunshine,


Content to stagnate frozen

In primordial ooze

Lest the mess that lurks beneath

Be exposed, raw in its stench.

Your skin has kept emotions contained,

Given you a measure of control

Over the uncontrollable.

See here, the crown of thorns

Which pierces hearts of ice.

Take hold of the spear

Which alone penetrates

Thick skin.

Be melted.

Drip with awe.

And watch your dirty little secrets

Dry up and turn to dust

Before the Light of the World.

More Check Than Mate


His moves push all her buttons.

He is a master

at manipulating her tears,

making them pawns in a complicated game of

more take than give,

more check than mate.

Give Seeds Their Wings

Your season of labour ‘neath hot summer sun

Has come to a standstill; the seeds you have won

Are poised on the brink of a wondrous fall fling,

One you can’t control – so

give seeds their wings!

Hush, My Heart

Hush, my heart, you thud too loud,

you stir deep thoughts, attract a crowd

of ponderings inside my chest,

carry calm on fluttered breast

to farthest moors of untried lands,

and banish slumber’s nodding sands.

Hush, my heart, your poundings wake

the sleeping Giant, for whose sake

I pause here, soothing soul in vain,

begging Beast with sweet refrain

to leave me, taking Love by force,

allowing me a freer course.

Get a Grip

Get a grip,

hold on fast;

Any slip

may be your last.

Fingers ache

with holding on;

Frosty breath –

you’re going, gone…


We delude ourselves when we feel that we have a grip on life. ┬áControl is but a frost away from losing it all – how much better it is to let go and be gripped by grace!



are the wave

which crashes my shore,

washing my substance far off to sea;


are the wind

which batters my door,

deluging undertow, wearing down Me.


find it odd

that my road cannot bear

the weight which it should, and so you fume;


count it strange

that my countenance wears

a funeral pall, like a runaway tomb.


still deny

what your actions have done,

your heart, calloused over, waxes blind;


will still try

with your bullying run

to make sure that my path’s undermined.