Inside His Hand


When what my eyes can see is not reality,

When beautiful appears as Judas’ kiss;

When up turns out to sink like stones of gravity,

And all is chaos, I remember this –

No matter the confusion all around me,

No matter how things look from where I stand,

The God who reigns above, both pure and Holy,

Holds every circumstance inside His hand.

The Great Reversal


Gravity snowed your shoulders cold,

bent your burdened frame,

watched while troubles multiplied,

whispered words of shame;

Ascension climbed on trouble’s back,

chose the way of love –

soared above the blizzard where

forgiveness reigns above.




Her head hangs

by a thread

eyes scanning dirt

as if to seek the soul

hidden under a crust

of regret

The burden of proof

on burdened shoulders

grips her gaze

with enough gravity

to tie her eyes to earth

but oh! humble heart,

you cannot outweigh


you cannot sink

beneath it

or plod past it

or hang low enough

to mar its magnificence

So look up

set your eyes

beyond this sin-stained soil

to the air beyond

your reach

for it is here

that grace




fallen leaves


There’s nothing remarkable

about giving Gravity

his way, nothing noteworthy

about this free-fall; no great

burden of excellence hangs

about the necks of the damned

as they rot in earthen graves.


Falling is too natural

to draw comments from the stands,

stumbling too easy to raise

an eyebrow or stir surprise.

So when she rose from the dead,

walked away from the compost

in her burnt orange platform

heels, she really stepped it up.

The Nudge of the Refugee



Taught to remain dead from the womb,

she walks among tombs, whitewashed

crypts concealing skeletal remains

of 1,000 generations, closets clammy


and fungal. She bites the apple

of her ancestors which, ever since

Newton wed Granny Smith, dictates

a hard fall. The System says, ‘Stay! Be


at home with Depravity, shake hands

with Despair! Dry bones can but rattle,

dead men can but dance.’ But she feels the

nudge of the Refugee, the rebellion of


soiled skin; when she opens her eyes

to Truth, she finds her mantle is but a

rented chrysalis. When they take the final

tally, her casket will be an empty husk,


with hinges rusted like dry blood, an

apple seed rooted through its temple.

Laughing at Gravity, she will rise

on the wings of the dawn, emancipated.



Thirst Quenchers

The Fall is inevitable –

mathematical probabilities

dictate that the relationship

between material and  motion

are directly proportional.

Gravity makes an insistent and

indiscriminate lover,

whose ‘Come hither’

is as irresistible as  it is unavoidable.

Yes, to fall is utterly human –

it is the Air that is Divine;

this place of faith leaping,

of cushioning the letting go,

is where ,

in the falling,

in the breaking down,

we are becoming



Raindrops twirling from the clouds,

Aerial dance, choreography of heaven.

Clinging in childlike faith to leaf and stem and petal,

Tension creates beauty – surface tautly stretches

To contain its entirety.

Gravity whispers slow,

Hungry with delighted anticipation.

Molecule joins to fellow, seeking companionship

In the great migration;

Drawn irresistibly to the center of the Earth,

Each raindrop traces the path of its ancestors

And abandons itself to the pull of the Deep,

the Joy of surrender.