city underground 

Sometimes life’s hard facts
Take over my mind
Reality is so unfair
Ugly crying isn’t really encouraged at work
Giving it my best shot to do my best
Grateful for compassionate co-workers
Looking forward to the weekend
Essentially wishing the day away

Basically just surviving the day
Using my coping skills to stay grounded
Staying a prayer that tomorrow will be better

Perhaps we are all unreliable narrators. 

Each human experience being subjective. 

Who would we assign the title of reliable?

Certainly not the disciples for they have thrills to gain.

Maybe the father himself, thought I might argue for proof.

We must rely on ourselves, though the living is lonely. 

Hope can be fragile as butterfly wings
or fading rose petals.
As distant as stars or the moon.

Shining bright like sunlight
or as dim as a dark cloudy day.

Waits for your call
when trouble arrives.

Will be ready to rise
at the blink of an eye.

When its time to fight evil deeds
it will be there beside you

in a fight to restore
and keep peace.

Hope never dies!

I’m trying to find something.

There is nothing.

If I eat what I’m offered, I get sick.

When I don’t, I feel dizzy and exhausted.

Having allergies is no joke,

even when I’m cautious and eat my meds.

I will eat dinner at home tomorrow.

My day glides by
in effortless attention
to my infant grandson

His language:
caveman ravings 
of tiny cravings;
pre-mama, pre-dada

Together we make
a pair of bookends

For him I hold up
a page of colorful snakes

For me, his teething drool
is eloquent proof
of string theory

The title comes into my mind when I see this (Dylan’s song, Like a Rolling Stone):

Dusk, noise out front
Man with a mission
Dumpster diving
Recycling plastic

for his next meal

I have a dream
One peach, two peaches, three peaches
Counting peaches is better than counting sheep

I have a dream
The day the peach truck arrives
Peaches and Cream
Peach ice cream
Peaches and homemade whipped cream on top of homemade waffles

I have a dream
Homemade peach jam
Homemade peach cobbler

All I wanta do is holla

I know the weight you’re carrying—
the hush of secrets in your chest,
the way guilt coils like wire
around your ribs
and squeezes every breath.

I know how your smile
can mask the tremor in your soul,
how you pour yourself into good deeds,
hoping somehow
to rinse the stains
you wish no one would ever see.

You call yourself a liar, a fake,
because your lips preach hope
but your heart feels locked
in rooms of shame,
echoing with things
you wish you’d never done.

You work, you give,
you serve, you provide—
and sometimes it’s love,
yet other times it’s guilt.
You’d give your own skin
for forgiveness
if you could.

You drink, you run,
you spin the wheel,
you tell yourself
you’re beyond repair.
Listen closely—
you are not!

Your secrets don’t shock God.
Your failures haven’t written
your final chapter.
Grace still stands
at your door,
unafraid of your mess.

You fear truth will burn
all you’ve built to the ground—
and maybe it will.
However, ashes are soil
where new life grows.
Better ruins than prisons.
Better wounds than chains.

There is someone out there
who needs you present—
not perfect.
The people who love you
need your truth,
even if it shakes
their world for a while.

Hope isn’t just for saints.
It’s for prodigals,
for double lives,
for trembling souls
who can’t believe
they’re worth a second chance.

So let me remind you—
though your shame
screams otherwise:

Your worth is not defined
by your worst choices.
It’s defined by a God who still thinks
you’re worth dying for.