Reflections on a Dead Rosebush

Note: True story. Like and comment below!

We were with child, we writhed in labor,
    but we gave birth to wind. -Isaiah 26:18

Rose poems are cliche,

but I have a dead one.

I inherited the bush

from a careless caregiver.


I sat in a pink chair

best suited for grandma’s

at high tea or a man

googling ‘rose bush thorns.’


The internet told me

The bush is diseased.

There’s not a cure, only

resignation as it dies.


My hands want to pull

The illness from its veins.

My hands want to cut

The choking chafe.


But I am not one

to decide its fate.

I can only shovel.

I shovel myself.


I’m a Fundamentalist

We all are.

They tell me:
“Do not hold
One thing too close.”
But we all do.

They ask me:
“Who are you
To tell me so?”
Who are you?

They scold me:
“There can not be
But one thing!”
You have one.

Material things
Or open minds
Justice, peace,
Or get me mine.

Relative ethics
Personal truths
You live your life;
Your choice is made.

What you choose
Is who you are.
Mine gave all
at Calvary

Now what is yours?

Anxiety is Sticky

Note: I’m normally not a fan of/don’t post ‘journal entry,’ angst on a page poems, but what poet doesn’t write that kind. This one felt a little more creative than normal. Like and comment below! What is anxiety like to you?

Anxiety is sticky.

My student spread glue

on his hands and spent

and hour peeling it

off and he was done.


Anxiety is sticky.

The coke got spilled

by a drunk hand

In an angry swipe

We could have cleaned

but we didn’t and now

you shirt makes a noise

when you step across it.


Anxiety is sticky.

I put my hands

on the table and found

melted ice cream.

Nothing put it there,

No one meant this,

I washed and washed,

but my hands stuck.


Anxiety is sticky.

A link to a more lighthearted poem to balance out the angst.

A Child’s Chalk Creation

Note: I don’t remember how a sermon inspired this one. Miracles. That was it. The insertion of miracles into natural law. Comment and like below!

Land and sea drawn in chalk

On Little Child Drive

Across asphalt and sidewalk


Intricate shores and oceans

Triangles for mountains

And arrows for the motion.


In the space between

Ants built a hill to live

And weed plants teemed.


The life competed in space depleted

So he took a chisel to the path

And the edges of the chink retreated.


The following day, in summer’s banality

The heavens opened on the microcosm

To fill with river the crack in the boys reality.

An Unshaven Tale

Note: I…… well you know….. you come here often? Like and comment below?

It started on the back of my thigh. I remember sitting on the sidelines, proud of my 6×4 patch of body hair. The other students continued there badminton games, while my mind cast forward.

A well trimmed lawn of manhood grew on my face and chest. A paisley tie hung parallel to the trimmed suit as I walked into the meeting of executives. My wife saunters about our red brick home. History would ripple with my life like a finger drawn through water.

Thirteen years on, though, my beard is Swiss cheese and I wonder every day whether I’m making a difference. Well, I know my life has impact, but when a grain of sand hits a windshield, does it turn to glass or leave a scratch?


Note: Inspired by a conversation I had with a friend about the Bible/reading creation and a sermon. Comment, like, and follow below!

They say God spoke creation into existence.
Words formed to make matter.

Serene flows with the creek
around trees by my apartment.

Gentle is smeared by the hands
Of a father home from war.

Firm stands in the trunk
Of a 300 year old oak.

We can feel ‘beloved sun’
Warmed onto my back.

We can hear “Be still”
In an autumn rustle.

But we are mad men who hear
Voices and misread the world.

Arguing like bloated critics
Before a formless sculpture.

So He gave us a diary
That could not be mistaken.

But I stumble reading aloud
And still don’t get Donne.

Some Easter Musings

Note: a wee bit late, but had the idea at an Easter service. Comment and like below!

I watched a video

Where a toddler

Cried to her father

‘Make it go away!’

She pointed at the snow

Dejection on her face

Unfamiliar to the taste

Of bitter cold

But she could not devise

Like Peter’s scoffing cries

That flowers would still rise

And color yet return