The Friday Poem.

Whew!  What a week!  I have been working hard on compiling all of my writing over the last few years, editing what I need for my first book.  It’s a lot of work!  On the positive side, thanks to all of you who have been encouraging me with the project.  I’m hoping for a fall release.

Along the way, I have uncovered more than a few poems I have written on spare scraps of paper, the back of envelopes, or tucked away at the bottom of Word documents.  They are poems that have been inspired by my faith, for the most part, although some are a little quirky.  I thought maybe I would post one every Friday on my blog for a while.  (Editor’s note: Although I haven’t been as faithful as I would have liked posting here at, I promise to do better!)

Anyway, here is the first poem.  Have a great weekend.



Writing a poem is like enjoying a cigarette, I’d imagine.
You capture the flame, for a bit,
you tap the ash away,
you watch the breathless white lace dance, again and again,
in your memory.

It’s why I’m absolutely sure the Apostles smoked.

Ignorant of lung cancer,
transfixed by nerves,
not having much to eat.

Or, perhaps they just needed something to do with their hands
as they loitered in the alley,
waiting for Him to come out of the Centurion’s home.


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