Breaking the Ice




he turns his shame upon himself.

Choice builds habit,

cube by cube,

erecting frozen walls

which become too slippery to surmount.

Had he raised his head

or his voice,

he would have found that

iceland is

littered with those




But not one of them

raised a head

or a voice,

so the ice

was never


Raise Your Eyes

Raise your eyes, little one.

Own no shame

for what your world has done –

battered and bruised,

torn, shattered, forsaken,

you hold within your bosom

the ultimate treasure.

Let go, little one.

Let the seeds borne through

heat and drought,

flood and famine,





Your beauty has faded,

but your heart will live on.

The seed planted in you

has been multiplied

like loaves and fishes;

your sacrifice

has purchased



raise your eyes to heaven,

where your seeds

will settle like dew

as angels reap

what you have sown.

Iron Maiden

Through the Iron Maiden’s bars

I spy a fairyland, a place

where peace grows, seeded row by row

with roots of safety, soil of grace.

But Iron Maiden bids me stay,

she bars the path to enter in;

whispers how I don’t belong,

hints at defect deep within

so here I stop, with longing gaze,

aching for the scene I spy,

wanting Eden’s leafy rest,

believing Iron Maiden’s lie.


She wears a stain, a purple smudge, upon her shame-drenched soul;

A wine splotch to remind her of the booze that ate her whole.

A heavy burden, that old stain, to carry all her days;

A ticking time-bomb blasting up her inner working’s ways.

She has resigned herself to suffer under its strong mark –

To carry consequences grave, alone in hidden dark.

But healing comes when grace collides with weaknesses and pain;

She meets the One who gave His all, to make her whole again,

And now her stain, instead of shame, is shining like a light

To beckon others to the path where healing is in sight.

Bloom on, brave heart, your beauty shines from soul which suffered loss;

Your stain’s a mark that points the way to find hope at the Cross.

Beauty Unfurled

Why do you hang your head, as though

The shame you carry was yours to keep?

Your beauty is lost on us, who

Grasp but a fragment, fallen asleep.

If you would  lift your countenance,

Bestow on your viewers your full charm,

We could water you with our love

And help you reject the pain and harm

You’ve endured.  Stand firm, fair flower,

You still have much to give our world;

If you will tilt back,  seek the sun,

Your hidden beauty will come unfurled…

Brandishing Burrs

Image courtesy of Jeff Adams

You spent your shame on me,

and it stuck

velcro-like in my chest,

a second skin.

So I’m brandishing burrs –

persistent in power,

tenacious in triumph,

they cling contagiously,

consummation of corruption.

Attempt at removal spreads the disease from

one stick-point to the next,

as tentacles grip with tentacle vernacular.

Shame-burrs pin a second skin

like voodoo doll dressmaker’s pins.

They pierce and drip blood

and spatter on sidewalks

and mar  furniture.

Outweighing organs and tissues, they

pull with gravitational ferocity

and I sink




under the mass.

If I shed one in a moment of stability

they call in favours

and reinforcements duplicate

in the ooze.

Do you not feel your burrs?

Do they not stick to you?

I think I’d like to give these back –

I grow weary of their antics.

Illegitimate offspring,

they don’t display my DNA

or collaborate with my dignity.

Is there a manual for burr-removal?

I’m ready to begin…