Wounded child
Not a man
Far too old, you play

Absent fingers
Hollow heart
Empty end of day

Highschool sweetheart
Dead to me
You abused my grace

One word for you:
Father-wound to trace

Boy Upon The Hill

Nothing’s fitting

Not the double barrel shotgun you placed against my heart
Not your blindfold upon me anymore
Nor your murderous silence

I’ve outgrown your cowardice
The singe of alone you always left me is fading away

But the boy you killed, I’ll live with daily
Stolen from me, the memory gorgeous

The boy upon the hill calling me
Kissing me
After some schoolbell tolled

All these decades, still


You were a sweet boy

Tall as the wheat

And I the rose bush

Rambling skyward

Why you drew near, I’d not wondered

Seasons later

Come, I summon,

Skyward again

Back to that hill and together

Standing e’er so near

I’d interrogate you

With a whisper, “My thorns, or my hue?”


Why we need the woman-girl
Sharing the storyline

She will save you from yourself
Lest you think too long and hard

Let her show you the world’s flora
Should your day be canvassed grey

Dare to let her lead you
In some season of your time

Teach her of the wonder-workings
To the world you navigate

Wonder then, aloud, fine sir
“Her grace, how might I hold?”