who has ears to hear…


Hell may

assault ears with

unearthly shrieks of

self-condemned rebels

tortured by vicious demons,

an infernal crackling

of eternal fire,

but worse yet

will be the

echoing miseries of sin,

utter absence of love,

awful silence of God.

can i pray for you?


Prayer is practicing the quiet presence of God.  It is crawling up into the lap of our abba – daddy and crying to hear him whisper comfort in our ear as he wraps us in his strong, everlasting arms.  Prayer is communion, connection, conversation; our privilege as children since Jesus opened door.  It may be a mighty wrestling, his will bending ours to grant a greater blessing than we can imagine.  In amazing love and grace, God invites us to pray and he initiates our prayers.  He wants us to come to him. In his presence, our brokenness begins to heal, our emptiness to fill. Prayer is relationship, not religion;  desire, not duty.  It is our lifeline; vital as breathing, inhale – exhale.  If we cannot pray?  Jesus intercedes, the Spirit groans and the family of God lifts us up, before his throne.


listen in silence

dew refreshes, green renews

spring rain for the soul

desert wandering


unnerving silence

bleached bones exposed upon sand

lone vulture circles


inviting silence

milky way stars spilled on sky

holiness hovers


My scribbles in the sand on “inviting silence” theme at CDHK today.

sound of silence


drop pair of cold titanium frames 

on fresh powder in front of feet;

thrust lightweight  poles within reach,

stuck together upright in deep fluff.

flex body forward in layered clothing,

balance on one leg, insert opposite boot,

clicking two buckle mechanisms till tight;

repeat; grip pole handles with fat mittens.


nippy south wind awakens indoor face,

pricks exposed cheeks below nordic cap,

breath quickly dampening fuzzy scarf.

turn deliberately toward western grove;

reaching forward, outward with poles to

navigate between scruffy garden shrubs,

crampons biting to grip frozen ridges

of tilled earth underneath winter cloak.


tramping unique imprint on landscape,

poles squeak slightly as baskets turn

when piercing frozen drift, snowshoes

crunch if climbing crusty layers of base.

brush past rustling spruce, spill snow;

circumvent unexpected fallen branch to

continue making trail: shush-shush-shush

pause, listen to palpable sound of silence.


*written for d’verse “blind poet” prompt:

while i wouldn’t want to snowshoe blindfolded,

i did attempt to write this using other senses