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
again

*****

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“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

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*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*

winter poem.

i
don’t mind
the cold days when winter covers
the heat smothering the
blinding sun with a mist-knit sweater
holding in hope and when at last
it lifts, the outline of
life sharpens
clear

*****
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searchin’ for the felt board Jesus. a poem.

i don’t claim to have the smarts of a

seminarian but i do know somethin’

about the priesthood. loving

Jesus since i could walk makes me one of

those folks Saint Peter

talked about bein’ priestly,

only i’m burned out pro’ly

on account of my grays but also

pro’ly ’cause capitalism gets all mixed

up with theology

and the little girl singin’ Jesus loves me

finds herself

lost in the latest dog and pony show

wondering

if the little clapboard churches mostly

abandoned are the only ones

who got it right. but like i said

i’m no seminarian.

just a girl searching for the felt board

Jesus

and his friends.

*****

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