November

Scarlet and orange sunrise

Beauty propelling me forward 

Into the dawn of a November day 

In the morning  sky

Far above my windshield 

A quarter mile of starlings 

Murmurating across the pale

And across my heart 

A thick fog swirls in the low spots

Bright reds and golds still lingering sharply

Against the muted browns of the season 

The red does not fight the brown 

Like poignant memories do not disturb the iron strength of healing

Hard won calm and peace 

My eyes meet a deer

Ready to cross but still by my car

Both of us safe, sharing this space 

I drive on and in the cornfields 

Her sisters and cousins feed 

In the communal silence

I release a deep exhale 

My breath ripples through the air

Like the starlings 

It solemnly settles in unbothered contemplation 

Like the deer 

Like the landscape I traverse 

I am all the contrasting colors 

All the collective truth

Of motion and calm 

Anchored by the brilliant rise of the sun 

Smiling as I ride 

Into the promise of today 

I'm not afraid of ghosts

I’m not afraid of ghosts

If they try to haunt me

I put them in their place

Words upon a page

No regrets torment my pillow

My karma gives me peace

They glide across the dark

A phantom specter 

Sliding through the shadows

Reaching for my reaction

Seeking to taunt

To bleed the color from my face

I do not chase them

With a net of intent 

I trap each shadow

I fold the phantom into a box

Examine how the rot

Fertilized my growth

And lock all ghosts in a room

Of poetry and self-assurance

Any hurt, any missing

Is long entombed

The only place it has amongst the living

Is to watch and be

Ink written into my story

An echo in the tale

Of my victory

These eyes

More cobweb clearing, not ruminating. This is the fruit of a conversation with my daughter about caring for someone who lives with shame wounds and trauma, but learning that caring doesn’t ever mean sacrificing yourself to their fucked up ways. Empathy does sometimes have to be schooled with self-preservation.  

Do you remember these eyes

That looked and saw 

Saw the little boy 

Who trembled in fear

At the angry man 

Who never said “I love you”

Who only knew he was loved by 

The food in his mouth

Who was imprisoned in his yard

Not laughing with the neighbor children

Or learning to swim at the pool

Just a block away 

I saw you and wanted 

Badly for you to know, truly 

Know the tenderness that 

You never felt 

These eyes saw that boy

Little paper boy  

Trusting his earnings safe

With mom and dad  

Envisioning his new bicycle 

Only to find his early hours 

Delivering papers in the dark

Purchased bus fare for his sisters 

There was nothing left for him 

So all his trust was spent, as well 

I saw and wanted you to know, truly 

Know a person you could believe

I saw he carried shame beneath

The humor and the attitude  

Obsessive over thinking 

Pretense that he was fine 

Do you remember these eyes 

They saw the man whose anxiety

Held him prisoner  

Who questioned his self worth 

I saw and I wanted to heal you, truly 

Heal you and bring you peace 

But it was too late 

I saw a broken man 

No conscience, no respect 

Filled with racism and deceit 

Do you remember these eyes

When your lies were revealed

When you broke my trust 

Just like that little boy’s 

I want you to remember, truly

Remember those eyes 

Because they will never look in yours 

Again

Omen

 As I made my daily drive

The sun rose in orange fire 

The clouds reflected the glow

I knew it was an omen 

A murmuration of starlings 

Crossed my path 

The light was long and I gazed

And gazed 

Deeply knowing they carried a gift

Upon the wind 

A quarter mile long they flew

In unity and beauty 

I knew it was an omen

The skies displayed their augury 

With joy my eyes understood 

Only good was in the air 

Heart fluttering with hope 

I believe in goodness

I see it in the morning light 

Omens conjuring the good news 

We all welcomed that night 

Walking

It’s a fine day 

The rhythm of my feet 

Moving through the promise

Of the morning 

Held to the ground by gravity

Lest my singing heart 

Lift me too high

And free floating 

I sail off into the heights

My thoughts have taken me 

When gravity is not enough 

To secure me 

Your hand holds onto mine 

Your feet step alongside 

Our connection keeping us both 

Firmly grounded 

Focused on direction 

Purpose

Even Destiny 

It’s a fine day 

To walk with you 

Yeast of the Pharisees

Talk about the “yeast of the Pharisees” — If Christians truly believe Jesus is God in the flesh, it raises an unavoidable question: why do so many work so hard to sidestep His clearest commands? The Gospels couldn't be more direct about loving your neighbor, welcoming the stranger, praying for your enemies, and protecting the vulnerable. Yet in many spaces— like the Neo-Reformed evangelical circles I used to belong to— radical compassion gets traded for a brand of "sound doctrine" that isn’t actually sound at all. In practice, it becomes a posture of intellectual and false spiritual pride, where technical theology and moral policing are used to glorify *perceived* personal holiness while insulating believers from real human suffering. 

When systemic cruelty, the dehumanization of immigrants by ICE, or the unchecked violence of state actions like Israel’s campaign in Gaza are rebranded as "law and order" or divine sovereignty, it isn't faith at work— it’s self-preservation. In the end, the uncomfortable, counter-cultural justice (the “social gospel” Christian nationalists sneer at) Jesus actually preached gets not-so-quietly discarded whenever it threatens political power, institutional purity, or the status quo.

When Jesus warned His followers about the "yeast of the Pharisees," He wasn’t talking about bread— He was warning them about a mindset. In Matthew 16, He clarifies that the yeast is actually their teaching: a legalistic system that obsessively elevated human traditions, technical rules, and self-righteous performance over what actually matters to God. 

Today, that same subtle or not so subtle corruption lives on when fear-mongering against marginalized groups— whether it’s Muslims, trans people, or immigrants— is weaponized to keep people outraged, divided, and focused on maintaining cultural dominance. By substituting manufactured moral panics for the weightier matters of the Gospel, it allows believers to feel religiously pure while *completely* stepping over Christ’s clearest commands to practice justice, extend mercy, and love their neighbors without condition.

Raking leaves

Early November, rake in hand 

Rhythmic meditation

Wooden handle in my palm 

Raking leaves always made me smile 

Memories of the little girl who saw the rake 

Not as a chore, but as a playful process

Gathering together the leaves

No, no, not cleaning a mess

Creating a soft place to land 

With a reckless leap into 

The gold brown heap 

The earthy, musty smell 

The crackle of leaves in my hair 

Appreciating the ritual of this season 

And sure to leave some leaves for the fireflies

To sleep away the winter 

Hiding places for little things 

Nourishment for the soil 

Then came the man with his machines 

A mission to blow the yard bare

An act of service to showcase his care

And so I let him, my words unheard 

To not be grateful seemed so rude

He saw it as job to be done

No joy no fun 

But I should accept it, allow him to 

Speak his love language 

Not hurt his feelings 

Let him show he cared in his way, this way 

I wanted the leaves to stay — 

To feed the soil

To shelter the quiet things -

He needed a clear lawn to pretend his hands were clean

Seasons change and

The sound of motors dies 

The leaves fall from the trees  

This time, once again 

My rake and I dance with 

The falling leaves 

The little girl in me smiles as 

Some we gather, some we leave 

Nurturing the soil and my own soul 

My heart is light as I pile them high 

And leap