Archives For Poetry

Can glory be wrapped up in nouns

or tied with verbs, like string? 

It seems like a disservice

when fireworks break at my ribs

and embers shower down

and Billows blow to flame. 


I scuff my shoes, apologize

for words that leave their tracks

all over holy ground.

But, what if glory wait for words—

each word a branch, a leaf, 

a bush through which to blaze? 


05XE1Q61BBPhoto courtesy of Marcin Czaja via


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The Space to Love You  —  November 24, 2015


Unpack my heart

      and give me room to breathe

      your true self,

for I could never

     wrap my arms around

     your whole self

or hold my breath

     and reach the bottom of

     your deep self. 

But, I can wade this moment

     in your shallows,

then spend forever venturing

     from shore.



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Grand Central Station  —  September 22, 2015

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Photo courtesy of Maria Molinero via


Sprinting, squeezing through the metal doors,

my mind a passenger on every train,

careening through a cityscape of deadlines,

past endless blocks of tasks that must be done,

now dipping into tunnels webbed with worry, 

then out again into the blaze of dreams, 

each line a frantic scramble toward tomorrow, 

carrying me to everywhere but here Continue Reading…

Despite what I advise patients in the exam room, I fight a constant battle to get: 

  • 8 hours of sleep
  • 30 minutes of exercise 5 days a week
  • 5 fruits and vegetables a day

So, if I’m already struggling to master those healthy habits, why would I add imagination-training to the list? 


Ben moore

Image courtesy of Ben Moore via


Because, cultivating our imaginations is like getting an oil change. We can run for a while without it, but at a lower performance Continue Reading…

             Screened in on your back porch—

             you big and boring people

             who just learned my name

             while milling in the foyer

             after service.

             Now I’m stuck all afternoon

             at your house

             because someone has to

             feed the visiting pastor.


2921 Vintage BarnPhoto Courtesy of Matt Gruber via 

             Under mom’s silent eye

             I fork a bitter, leafy ball.

             Chew and swallow.

             Chew and swallow.


             She nods and looks away.


             This somebody’s grandfather

             drones on, keeping time

             with the walnut clock

             whose ticking marches down the hall.

             If only I could be anywhere,

             everywhere else,

             but here.

Continue Reading…