Lashed and bloody.
demeaned and nailed
to that wooden cross,
a thorny crown pressed
into his head.
A spear pressed
into his side
spilling blood and
water alike
splashing on the ground.
It is three days
until resurrection
Sunday.

Enough
is a beautiful word.
It gives me strength.
It gives me power.
I have grown.
I have developed.
I am enough
for everything.

Being good enough.
Being smart enough.
Being well enough
just to be,
to be in this moment of time
in this way,
and on this day.

I can do anything
when I am enough.
I can be anywhere
when I am enough.
I can be anything
when I am enough.
I just am enough,
and that's good enough for me.

Drenched in heavy morning rain,
like a glacier exhaling into the sea,
I sit—still, marrow-shaken—
weighed down by endless tests.

I seek the scoffer’s sympathy.
My litanies ripple, not through a broken bell,
but in a warped chime—its notes splinter,
scattering my pleas into hollow air.

No restaurant on High Street offers solace.
Then, suddenly—sanity finds me:
a hand, warm and certain, enclosing mine,
while her other steadies her child, firm as an anchor.

The Sun rises from the East and sets off in the beautiful Western horizon,
Whereas clouds are what make the blue sky an art piece,
And stars are the paint that light up a dark canvas,
My eyes finally saw the beauty in through the eyes of another.

It used to be rainy nights that I spent alone, reminiscing about the ones that broke my heart,
That was until I met her,
I thanked the universe for aligning my path with hers,
In her eyes, I saw a future where everything of 'mine' became 'ours',
And her heart is my hearth.

In the quiet hours,
The heart is targeted
By evil powers.

You want to scream until
Silence finds her voice,
And an anxious soul is still.

Failure is just an outfit—
Be patient,
You will grow out of it.

Troubles will keep on climbing;
You will mutter under your breath,
“Oh, they mastered perfect timing.”

Hope is the hidden attic,
Always waiting for you—
Ignoring it seems automatic.

Faith is the car left in park;
Without pressing the gas,
How can joy embark?

Two tiny hands, two tiny feet
Eyes that match mine

The older you get,
The more I see you
Becoming your own person
With your own opinions and preferences

But sometimes,
You wear my high heels and say things that I say.
You step in my footprints and walk in my shadow.

I remember, in those moments,
That while you are you,
You are kind of me, too.

I want to see you make your own shadow,
Look down with the wind and the sun at your back
And see yourself
With two little hands, and two little feet.

I couldn't find a solitary word
for someone who makes me happy

by doing nothing in particular.
So, I'll say your name.

Grandma’s kitchen was busy
canning jams and such
We always loved
the tanginess of the pickles.

Grandma’s kitchen was busy
with Thanksgiving and Christmas
when she made the fruitcake
we loved.

Grandma’s kitchen was busy
with Sunday dinners where
the men always ate first.

Grandma’s kitchen was busy
baking cookies with the
grandchildren.

Grandma’s kitchen is silent
because grandma is gone.

sheets of mist
creeped and spilled
over the small town.
Deep and murky, with
a tomb-like stillness.

manacle-grey skies
over mankind,
bones rattling
from hordes of evil

blood eyes, glinting
with violence. Claws

tipped like cats
paws, serrated for
ripping away flesh.
and soft tissue.

Ravenous gums peeled
back, revealing,
piercing fangs that
took shape out of
the filmy beard
of the smoky vapour.

Joyful music is all a glow with Sorrow in the midst of happiness.
Our Lord died on the cross to save us from our sins.

On Good Friday they nailed Him on the cross and crowned Him with many thorns.
Mary weeping as her Son was laid upon her lap.
He was buried with swaddling cloth to wrap His incense body.

Three days on Easter morning the rock was removed and the cloths unwrapped.
Jesus has risen on this Easter morn.

Songs of Alleluia and Gloria Ave fills the air with exciting sounds of praise.
Our Lord Jesus has Risen.