Poems
None of my poems are published. Not unless you count the ones I send out as Christmas cards every year, and a couple printed in conference proceedings. But you can find occasional ones posted here.
Bookmarked
A red cloth cover, frayed and torn away,
Reveals the furrowed spine with stubbled threads.
The crinkled edge, striated cream and grey,
Is seamed with loosened leaves, ridge after ridge.
Below the surface, spindly letters trace
A name, so like my own. What other prayers,
What other marks of weakness, strength and grace
Are pressed within impenetrable layers?
Yet in hands they know they fall apart;
The thickened pages, soft with thumbs and age,
Disclose the place frequented at the heart,
Where eye-worn words run smooth across the page.
This book that knows its space upon the shelf,
Whose imprints bear the makings of myself …
A red cloth cover, frayed and torn away,
Reveals the furrowed spine with stubbled threads.
The crinkled edge, striated cream and grey,
Is seamed with loosened leaves, ridge after ridge.
Below the surface, spindly letters trace
A name, so like my own. What other prayers,
What other marks of weakness, strength and grace
Are pressed within impenetrable layers?
Yet in hands they know they fall apart;
The thickened pages, soft with thumbs and age,
Disclose the place frequented at the heart,
Where eye-worn words run smooth across the page.
This book that knows its space upon the shelf,
Whose imprints bear the makings of myself …