Our Healing Gift

In a futile attempt to erase our past, we deprive the community of our healing gift. If we conceal our wounds out of fear and shame, our inner darkness can neither be illuminated nor become a light for others.

Brennan Manning

Blank Verse

Beyond the Havens Gray

My heart, it looks to shores of living green
To rolling hills and shadowed glens and sunny vales
To ancient paths wherein the angels have trod
To mighty seas, to winding rivers deep and broad

My heart, it looks to plains of dancing grass
To hoary mounts and rugged roads and cloudy skies
To ancient wells where from the beasts and men have drunk
To golden halls, to lasting lands of glory shone

My heart, it looks to lands where pain is dead
Where death has perished and run and fallen in the light
Where grace and glory rules, where loves is all that’s known
Where beauty’s comes to dwell on Heaven’s earth


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Sonnet, Wheel of the Year


Golden streams of liquid light flow thick and hot
through tepid seas forgot within the march
parading on the grounds of time’s remorseless trot
within the life of space.  A shrewd démarche,
a haze lies thick amidst the sullen boughs
weighed down by verdant arms made drunk by shining
light.  A hush befalls the rotting thens and nows,
replaced by buzzing soon-to-bees in holy shrines
resplendent in their colored gowns and smocks.
Dun monks, they wilt defrocked beneath the sparkling
rays descended to give life and thence to walk
with death; before his ephemeral cold and darkness
presses on this life of light.  A Sleep.  A seed
pressed deep into the earth- a molten, flowing mead.

(featured image source)

Sonnet, Wheel of the Year


In darkness lies midwinter’s lonely road
beneath the bleak discriminating erne.
He pads midst silent seas of snow and firn
and stride upon the troglodytic wold.
The sun grows shy before his slow advance,
the moon tenaciously asserts her berth.
Her glow illuminates the raven’s mirth
and floods the season’s gelid, hoary manse.
Amidst the dead of night is birth the morn
when wintertide is at his fullest flow.
The bitter winds across the tillage show
the brutal, bloody path to glory’s bourn.
The solstice gleam approaches in the tomb
dispelling night with light in heaven’s womb.