Poetic Utterings

Life can be a bitter brew, but not as bold or strong as you.


God Poetry

A Writer’s Prayer

A Writer's Prayer

Nothing Changes

Nothing Changes

A Glimpse

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In Hatred’s Desolation

In Hatred's Desolation.png

First and Foremost

First and foremost: you.
And all that’s else will follow after.
Even if it feels
Like rushing headfirst to disaster.

 – s. Clark

Good Gifts

Yes, it’s true. I don’t deserve it,
Not a good thing that exists.
But, somehow, my God who loves me,
In His kindness still persists.
Still He presses forth, so faithful,
Rotten though my heart may be,
Loving me beyond my failures,
Giving such good gifts to me.
Have I earned my  life and wellness?
Or deserve such time and care
From the people who surround me,
And the God who put them there?
Though He owes me nothing, truly,
I have learned His gifts come free,
For the goodness of the Savior
Has nothing to do with me.

– s. Clark

Theme Week: Spring – 1

The Thaw

It has been winter so long.
Cold crept in and creaked her bones,
Made her icy to the touch.
She wanted to see the beauty in the snowflakes,
In the shimmer of the endless ice,
But she is buried six-feet deep,
Breathing in shards.
She tried to ward the winter off–
Keep moving, friction forces warmth.
Curled her toes and rubbed her hands together,
Huddled close to someone else’s heat.
But they were temporary flames,
Only candles, blown out in the blizzard of her soul.
Until, unforeseen beneath the grey gloom sky,
The Sun returned. And though so far removed,
Unreachable by tiny, frosted hands,
The strength of its fire lit the sky
And rolled across the earth like liquid gold.
And, softening its strength,
It caressed her frigid fingers. With a crack,
The frozen fissures of her heart are thawed
And melted into clean, spring water.

– s. Clark


This world, it is so very short.
This lifespan is so small.
And soon, so soon, I come to Him,
And pass beyond it all.
The hurts and pains are weak refrains
Against His singing call,
Just spider-strands against His hands
That reach beyond it all.
This life is just a shooting star,
So do not fear the fall.
I blaze, I burn. His arms await,
His love, beyond it all.

– s. Clark


What a marvelous mosaic of stories we make.
You must look at the weave of us
And wonder at the artistry of Your work,
The way we intertwine and move among,
Perhaps never knowing.
Perhaps never touching,
But all our varying shades,
The balance of light and shadow in our fibers,
Make us such a perfect painting.
And maybe that is why we feel so ugly,
Zoomed in so closely as we are,
Microscopic. Seeing the speck of grayish blue,
And not the rolling sea beneath a storm.
Seeing the sickly slice of red,
And not the booming meadow of sunset.
Perhaps we threads would not feel so lonely,
So starkly different, so bent and tangled,
So lost within the maze,
If, rather than solitary, twisting twine,
We saw the tapestry.

– s. Clark

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