The uncertainty of her motor skills makes her lean,
step after wobbly step,
smiling as she walks along the edge of all things reachable,

oblivious to danger. She has twisted her chunky thighs
and roll-cushioned knees into impossible angles, and her head,
apparently hard, has bumped and clunked innumerable surfaces.

She’s got her diaper on, bare belly protruding dangerously
as onward she stumbles across the carpet of the future,
and attempts, free from worry, to walk unaided.


Poem: My Greenhouse Bubble

My Greenhouse Bubble

From the polution of my heart
a bubble forms around my life;
like the greenhouse effect,
it diverts divine grace,
constantly sent sunbeams,
from reflecting from me
away from my gravity
as they were made to.

Instead, those untold graces
on their way out turn back to me.
I kneel to pray, but my prayers
constantly return in subject matter to their sender.
Naturally, I take the grace to pray
and use it to bless myself,
praying for my needs,
as if the earth, a tiny pebble,
need pray to the behemoth sun to receive his sunlight.

And, then, I intend
to praise him in prayer,
to pray for others,
yet constantly, like faithful dogs,
the words and thoughts
return to my needs, my day,
my desire to pray with pretty words.

“I will make your name great,
and you will be a blessing.”

Here is grace for grace,
to be given the unsearchable riches
of the gift of prayer,
and then the gift of actually seeking them.

Poem: My Superpowers

My Superpowers

My superpowers:
I can stand at the edge
of the ocean of Joy
whose depths stretch
into the abyss of the universe
and remain unmoved.

I can pray
to the one who, once an infant,
held the quintillion stars in balance
while still learning to focus His eyes,
and, while praying,
I can be unimpressed.

I can use absurd pronouns–
my Savior, my King, my God–
proclaiming ownership
of the one who made me
and whose ownership I deny
and, while praying,
I can remain nonchalant.

My superpowers,
my diamond-hard heart,
is killing me
like Spider Man’s black suit.

But unlike Spider Man, I can’t save myself.
I can’t tear the suit off.
I can’t will my heart to change.
I can’t soften diamonds.

But He can.


On whom to blame?

Satan, sin, and death:

Our choice,

our hearts,

our prize.

–Dave Stuart Jr.

A couplet inspired by Crystal

Form: nature hath none fairer than this:
my sweet bride, whom I crave to kiss.