mourning dove. a poem for the martyrs.

your cry cut through the empty
black morning, shuffling on
into another long day of wondering where
in the world is the hope?
surely even you had pounded your weary
wings against the hard cold, fleeing
from winter. but just when I wasn’t listening
i heard your lonely keen
a refrain I hardly realized I’d yearned for
until i heard you singing



“For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers,nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
Romans 8:38-39 ESV

*dedicated to the Coptic Christians and martyrs everywhere, and that each of us would be so brave when our time to stand for The Cross Draws nigh*

thoughts on the sunrise. a poem.

formless and afraid in the navy

night i found my shape once

again as the sun rose and pressed

the darkness from beneath

my skin and the outline of all

things became clear




did you ever scribble in the margins?

did you ever–
while the teacher lectured
and your high school crush sat across the room
and the class brown-noser took notes like his life depended on it
–scribble in the margins?

did you ever
when you got stuck sitting next to the class nitwit
glance at the brilliant doodles
crowding his wide ruled paper
notebook abandoned
on his desk after he got sent (((again))) to the principal’s office?

in the space between fine crafted outlines and
the edge
of the paper did you ever

cuz’ they have it all wrong in kindergarten. inside the lines is for sissies.


“[Jesus] said ‘Follow me’ and ended up with a lot of losers. And these losers ended up, through no virtue or talent of their own, becoming saints. Jesus wasn’t after the best but the worst.” ~Eugene Peterson