HeyJaredPrayer into Poetry
A happy Catholic, Camino pilgrim, and spiritual director invites you into prayer through engaging poems, and sometimes vice versa
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 7
- Latest publication
- Sep 28, 2026
- Audience
- Checking…
- Earliest in this view
- Jul 6, 2026
Latest issues
“Offer No Resistance” (opens the original)
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You loom, you leerthrough window drearadrift in snowwith dawn not near.It’s night, I’m blind. I cannot sleep. The dread runs deep.You plague my mind,oh enemyof all that’s true! You are not here and yet your imageswells my fear.Oh be my refuge,mother dear! Your son has said,do not resist;give way, give into evil, sin, lose all to win.Turn cheek! Be meek!You’re strong when weak. Which makes no sense.How not to mindan evil faceor lying thoughtthat has no place<br
For His Name’s Sake (opens the original)
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A name is such an immaterial thingexcept at last on graves. The rest is airvibrating over vocal cords and vanishing. The rumors we imagine, even hear, the dirty names detractors pin on us, the licenses, certificates on walls,the plaques with dull patinas, ID cards,last names on mailboxes flying flags— they’ll all be taken down and thrown to waste.And wind and rain will finally erodean epitaph engraved on marble stele.I’m sure you’ve walked an ancient bury groundand seen the notoriety: flat gone.
Unconsumed (opens the original)
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He lived his life in rising heat and flame.The childhood lies he told first set a spark.The petty thievery and hurtful pranksbegan to kindle brush fires in the yard. A smug rebellion burned the bridges home.He started chasing fire trucks through the towns,each conflagration drafting him away,and needing fuel he took up weed and wine,which led to brash incendiary thoughts,the rants and rages setting all afire. He all but burned alive—came just that close. Yet always something held him from a doom
Old Actor in Autumn (opens the original)
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The writing engine has restarted itself and seems to be running smoothly. So I am going to post twice a week until further notice, Mondays and Fridays. He sits beneath the tree beside the road, a horse chestnut in moult quite like himself:no longer leafing out but neither dead.Its topmost leaves have turned to tawny brown, like all those roles that once enlivened him,now letting go and spinning down to sod,where tramps and kings all come to rest at last.And still some lower boughs grow lush and
Status Quo (opens the original)
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I like the way I think I lookwhen glancing at a passing glass.I hear my voice and think, how true;I’ve never heard it better said. You talk and I nod paying heedto my own inner dialog.I’d rather sit here quietlyinhaling my own healthy smell.This sofa must enjoy as much the touch of my skin as I its. I’m happy here and hardly needto budge to keep my equipoise. I am just fine the way I am;I do not need to change a thing. There’s no reason why this particular piece marks my return from two months’
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