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These poems come from the margins of my own pages — fragments, questions, and quiet reckonings that don’t quite fit anywhere else.
Some are recent. Others have been with me for years. I share them here not as finished statements, but as offerings — raw, reflective, and sometimes uncertain.
They’re part of the same work this site is built on: the practice of paying attention, turning things over, and sitting with what doesn’t resolve.
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The sky cracked opennot with thunderbut with silence.Ash fell like memoryon shuttered schools,fenced gardens,empty roads where oncechildren danced in chalk outlinesand elders watered the earth. They said the world endedin a bang or a flood.But it ended in pieces—in choices, in cuts,in laws that looked the other way. What is faithwhen the churches burn?What is…