Poetry

Anxious Minds

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O Lord, be merciful when I reduce
Pray’rs to compulsions and repeat the lines
Like incantations till my mind lets loose.
I love you, but obsession undermines
Abiding and I get stuck in the steps,
Working to breathe instead of breathing free,
Approaching rev’rence, bypassed to precepts.
I struggle not to strive. But you know me.
You formed me in the womb and there could see
Each struggle I would face. I’m understood.
When I can’t do, you give me grace to be.
When all feels wrong, you still can make it good.
Remind me of this truth when scruple binds:
The Maker’s still at work in anxious minds.

Photo by Daniel Joshua on Unsplash

OCD and Grace

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Mine is a life of much anxiety
Such that I scarcely know a state of peace,
For its pursuit oft entails other ends.
I second-guess my sense of piety
And journey with the rarest of release
From fear and tension, for the state attends
So much of life and ever doth give chase.
The hounding of my mind may never cease,
But in this sojourn, God in love extends
Provision through safe havens in the grace
Of friends.

Photo by Ashleigh Joy Photography on Unsplash

Songs

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A Golden Shovel poem, after “Prayer (I)” by George Herbert

In Tolkien, creation comes by a
Song sung by one strong and kind,
Kind in his sharing of
The song, strong in his control over the tune.
Even enemy melodies, which
Affect all things, all souls, all
Stories, cannot unmake things
More deep and more true. You can always hear
Hope, can still sing your part and
Join the song that shatters fear.

Photo by Isaac Ibbott on Unsplash

For more on the Golden Shovel form, click here.

To read Herbert’s poem, click here.

Flora

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The grass grown here is named for St. Augustine—
The Florida one, not the church father,
Though the bishop’s name befits this place. Lust in
Its past plagues its present, and souls bother
With all manner of “wisdom” while the truth
Beckons from the lips of Christians homegrown
And transplanted into the hard soil. Youth
Still steal pears, or citrus here. On their own,
One might think it impossible they’d find
Their way from Desire. The city of God
Is near and far. Yet the Father is kind,
Answering Monica’s pray’rs, making sod
Like Sodom’s sprout blades of grass that grow strong
And vines that produce fruit further along.

Photo by Mitch Hodiono on Unsplash

Origin Story

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I have been formed by faith and OCD,
The former giving language to the latter
That quickly learned to chatter and to batter
My mind and heart until I could not see
That what I thought was freedom charged a fee
And pseudo-peace did cut, curse, cripple, shatter.
The tapestry was torn until a tatter
Became the whole of my theology.
But faith in God does not require perfection,
And grace abounds the more in misperception.
In his good time, he trimmed the troubled vine,
Redeeming days I lost to the infection.
Truth triumphed over every deception.
My peace and freedom now are his design.

Photo by Abram Goglanian on Unsplash

Third Place

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In the corner spot of the bench seat, I
Met with God and with great thinkers, studied
Past papers and pages. Pimento toast
With bacon and a cold brew, glass sweating—
I keep napkins underneath to catch the
Condensation—kept me fueled and focused,
That and the eight-hour YouTube video
Of coffee-shop sounds and soft jazz, because
The real thing by itself is just a bit
Distracting. After studies, or before,
I open a journal and a notebook,
One for prose, one for verse, and I reflect
On life, its beauty, its difficulties,
And on God’s great faithfulness through it all.

Photo by ian dooley on Unsplash

Postcard

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I thought to write a postcard to myself,
The present to the past with some advice,
But chose to put the card back on the shelf.
Some plot points might be changed, but at what price?
For God redeemed the long and sleepless nights
And answered pray’rs I did not know to pray.
For ev’ry six wrongs, there were seven rights,
And ev’ry dead end then led to today.
My story is made richer by the hurt
That taught the truth of healing and of grace
Abounding, resurrection, flow’r and dirt
Together, both belonging to a place.
My life’s been far from perfect, but I see
The blessings of the road that made me me.

Photo by Murat Karahan on Unsplash

Landscape

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The earth may not be flat,
But New Orleans is.
Swamps surround the city built on swamps,
A city ever sinking but never sunk.
We walk on water, you might say,
Though perhaps not by faith.
We have no hills or mountains,
Just a dome and some mausoleums
Set against splendid sunsets.
Live oaks canopy our parks,
And streetcar tracks connect us
In a city where East and West mean
North and South
And our architecture speaks
Many languages.

Photo by Morgan Petroski on Unsplash

Snow Day in New Orleans, 2025

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It snowed ten inches in New Orleans yesterday-
That’s ten more inches than we get most years-
And gave the city an impromptu holiday,
A joyful breeze that chilled our undried tears.
We speak the language of precipitation
But not this dialect. We know of flood
But not of flurry or accumulation,
And frost’s not often what has chilled our blood.
But in a city mourning New Year’s tragedy,
Where bitter memories still haunt our sleep,
A snow day brought an unexpected melody,
Reminding us we will not always weep,
For songs that seemed forgotten in the night
Were found again and sung in winter’s light.

My friend Gary Myers wrote about how New Orleans needed a snow day this year, highlighting the news anchors who covered this day just weeks after covering a tragedy. I kept thinking about that observation, about the juxtaposition of tragedy and joy, and it led to this poem.