Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.
His image rests in mid air
long flowing, sky robe,
wispy as my hair.
I retreat, tear back in fear,
embracing shame.
He knows me as no other,
this game i play. (Christmas 1990)
Who is this man
that I draw His attention?
Me, alone, prominent.
A snarled olive tree in a
pitch-dark moonless night.
He calls me by name,
I am His and He is mine. (Summer 2014)
My intention is never to coerce.
How would that make my evidence
any more powerful than yours?
Instead, I say “if” because
if you had the experiences I have
there would be no doubt,
your belief in unbelief.
