Glade

I should have known that something bad had happened when I noticed the weeds growing in his garden. His once impeccably clean dirt now had several obnoxious plants sprouting.

 

Weeds never stop to let people live out the end of their love story.

 

A couple afternoons later I was sitting on the drive way with June, chalk in our hands. My neighbor came home and walked over and sat down by us and asked June if he could write his name.

 

GLADE.

 

He is a simple man. He grew up on the street we live on. Him and his wife married young. Once he told us that he had to chase her away from all those other boys. He doesn’t always talk so candidly.

 

But his kind soul is always being shown. Every summer and fall he brings us over food from his massive garden. Squash, beans, cantaloupe, corn, apples, tomatoes. He hardly knew us when he first started to share his harvest. But we soon learned about him that he spends all this time taking care of his old house, yard, and, his wife.

 

I see him leave his house, wearing some plaid shirt, with his wife at the same time everyday. One day I found out where they were going. He takes her to a gym to walk on the treadmill every day ever since she had her heart attack.

We watch a lot of romantic movies and read books about it, but it’s seeing that old white car drive down the road to the gym every day that becomes one of the best love stories I’ve ever seen.

It’s the way he takes his wife’s hand or rubs her leg when she keeps forgetting who we are, even when we told her two minutes ago.

 

It was in his voice as he told me what happened the other day.

 

I just stared down at his name in chalk as he told me. I knew his wife wasn’t in the best health, but why did there have to be a car accident?

 

He spoke like he always does, the same voice he would use to talk about pumpkins, but I could hear past that.

 

Sadness.  

The deepest kind. 

The kind that comes from impending loneness.

 

The car had rolled. She had internal bleeding in her skull. She is sleeping a lot and either she will heal… or not. There is not much else to do.

 

And meanwhile his perfect lawn grows taller, his trimmed bushes get uneven.
And the weeds grow.

The Old Tabernacle

What were our chances of finding an unlocked door? We tried the first one: locked. Second: locked. Third:

            Open.

We pulled the heavy door toward us and breathlessly walked in, leaving the dark winter night behind us.

The wood smelt historic and it moaned with age beneath our steps. It was dark and empty; every sound we made bounced through the tabernacle.

 

We tip toed up the stairwell, passing by thick glass windows that only allowed in a soft amber light from the street lamps outside.

 
Emerging onto the balcony, we took a seat up front in a pew overlooking the absent audience below and the naked stage with only a lone grand piano. I could imagine the echoes of music and lights and candles that now seemed so distant.

Lunar

I woke up right after the first bite had been taken. I was excited to see my first lunar eclipse. As the earth’s shadow devoured the light I realized that my heart was pounding hard and I could feel the pulse in my ears. I was nervous. It was as if God Himself was erasing the moon from His holy canvas. What if He chose not to draw it back again? What would we do without our silver sentinel each night?

And with that- it was gone. A chorus of morning stars rushed the stage as the sky sunk the invisible moon. Somehow I felt apart of the alignment, sandwiched in. From the sun to the earth to me up to the moon.

To Purchase Happiness

"Excuse me."
"Yes."
"How much is that 'Happiness' over there?"
"Oh that?"
"Yes- the deluxe package."
"The 'True' one?"
"Yes, 'True Happiness."
"That one? We only accept sacrifice for that."
"What's the payment plan?"
"That one costs your selfish deeds and desires. Your false ideas of pleasure. Certain leisure and comforts."
"Can I pay with obedience?"
"Indeed, obedience partners with sacrifice."

"What about the 'Pleasures' package?"
"Very expensive."
"What does it cost?"
"Your salvation."
"If it's so expensive then why is it selling out?"

"Because with salvation you can buy now and pay later- where as, with obedience & sacrifice you must pay as you go. People don't seem to mind the debt."

Dear Buck

The sun sets, falling under the waves. Colors shatter and break in the air.

 

Slowly we rock back and forth, the small ship sleepy and calm.

 

On strong wooden planks you hold me and we dance.
 

The stars sit down to watch. The darkest blue turns black. Water becomes sky.

 

We rock, and we rock, back and forth.

 

Peace laps up against the boat.

 

The storms have brought us so far from the land, the clouds ushered us on. They sailed us to a place unknown by any traveler. Our place of rest. Our sea-breeze lullaby.

 

The kind wind hums softly the songs born by her travels-  distant and enchanting. Somehow she has found us. She takes our tale and continues on, telling it to the sea.

 

But we stay on.
 

And we rock and we rock and we rock to sleep.

Let's Run To

Let’s run to

Because we’re not running away
From anything.
We are running to something.
We are not leaving
we’re going
Coming
Arriving
In route anyways.

Let’s not run away.
Bring the past with us
Let’s throw it into the open future
and
run to it.

I’ll bring mine
And you bring yours
Wasn’t that the point?

Let’s stop speaking of it
Sacrifice.
We get more
That is
Than we give.

So let’s run to.

Because we can.
and because we should
for no other reason in the world
other than ours.
Lets run to it.

Throw open the doors
Don’t leave a note

Run
Skip
Swim
FLY
Anything
Together
Someway
We’ll run to.


Forever.
Into colored suns
And silver stars
We don’t leave the world
Simply
We create it

Ready when you are

Let’s run to.

Stars

It’s raining. In my rage I look up at the empty dark sky. The night stars are falling and they land on my face. I feel angry. Why is it that everyone has gone, everything has changed, yet here I am, stuck? I feel an irritation towards the sky. I want to rip every star from it’s nook and place it in a new constellation that seems to fit the amount of change that has happened. It is fair or safe that there is something so constant as the stars? It’s false hope. When was there ever actual stability in a wish hosted by a shooting star? Yet night after night I continue to look up. There’s the big dipper, Orion’s belt, the seven sisters. Still, holy, and real. But I feel lied to, slightly bewitched. But then, always, the whisper that follows the light, “Everything will be alright.” And somehow, it always is.

She Belonged to the Summer

She always awoke to find the songs of the birds upon her. To see her was to look into a golden sky. A sky where when the night came you found stars falling all around you. To touch her was to taste honey. To lie next to her was to commune with the breeze.

She belonged to the summer.

One longed to stand or bathe in her garden. To listen to her speak was to be touched by pearl moonlight. A light of pale silver reminding you to breathe. To dream with her was catch shade from the almond tree leaves. To share in her secrets was to be covered in clovers.

She belonged to the summer.

And as long as you´re with her you belong to it too. To her body and her mind. To be covered by the sun in her hair, in its golden madness. To explore and discover. To be warm.

For when the leaves plummet and the trees reveal their teeth; when virtue falls from the sky in cold anger- that is when you will wake up alone, left with a whisper. For you knew she couldn't last there.

She always belonged to the summer.

Peace

Content to spend my days

toes dancing on the surface of the water

savoring the juice discovered in a peach

Tall grass communing with the breeze.

Listening to God's afternoon hymn

an applause of flowers

A testimony of colors

Freedom

Silence

I bring it all with reverent hands

and I carry it with me as I leave.

So that at least I know

whenever I close my eyes

that some part of my heaven

                 lies waiting

right there.

    Where I left it.

Education

Education.

Perhaps this word brings to mind school houses, apples, and rulers. But for me I see conversations around kitchen tables, starry nights, paintings, and laughter- all ways that I have been educated.

What about teachers?

Can you see the social figure standing in the front of the room? Chalk in hand and grade book near by? I think of someone else. I see my parents; best friends and enemies- the grocery store cashier, an eight-year-old child. And Walt Disney.

In the pursuit of furthering education we get caught up in symbols and pieces of paper. But what if education wasn’t measured by a letter? What if it was measured by your ability to live? Your capacity to see and hear- to observe? Your application of love? Suppose we were only tested on our willingness to change. What if it depended on passion and gratitude?

Can somebody really tell me what qualifies me as “educated?” To sing or to multiply or divide. To laugh or to cry. If I’m feeling I learn. If I’m in pain I progress. You don’t just find this in socialized institutions. It’s also found in tearful sunsets, burnt cookies, gusts of wind, and beliefs.

He Stood Apart

He stood apart from the crowd with his hands behind his back; a white rose pined to his dark suit jacket. He silently cried as he looked at the casket draped in an American flag.  The feathery snow whispered down to the fresh dirt.

I wanted then to be a part of him.

To leave the world and go inside.

Because. As I stood there I saw life and death in front of me. And purpose. I saw that too. And I wanted it.

{Written Feb. 2010}

            When I first saw him that morning I smelt the cologne. He’s never worn it before. I guess it is reserved only for special occasions. His grandpa’s tie was around his neck, held to his shirt with a ruby pin that was as red as a tomato.

I felt it then just as I had for a while, although still new.

A feeling of fierce need and devotion.

A longing to know and to become love. I was pleased yet insecure that this rare feeling was not mine alone, but that it was shared and given back.

            We walked out into thick snowfall. I saw my life in the snowflakes. Each one was so different and unique and beautiful but when all put together the result was white and blank. And so it is with my future. So many moments, unlike any that this world has or will ever see again but as I add them up the future is only white and blank. Still undetermined. No resolution.

I never wanted him to say good-bye and shut my door.

I never wanted to go home, even if it was only for a few days.

I only wanted to stay and try. To be apart of him. To feel for one uncomplicated moment what it feels to love.

Because. As I drove away I knew that fears would encroach and reality would water the flames. It is now that I have to grasp the simple emotion. From this spot I begin to grow. It’s here I put my roots. This feeling. The foundation to nurture all that could come. No matter how complicated it may get, I can always trace the trunk back down here.

To love.

"I Love You"

“I love you.”

He first said the words so carelessly and irresponsibly.

Or so I thought.

Silence.

I laid there. Unable to say them back.

Until one day,

“I love you”

Came out of my mouth.

To him.

I said it to him. And about him. I meant it but the words were green like eating pre-ripe fruit.

A green banana.

A bright orange persimmon.

A white raspberry

I was scared.

And I didn’t know how to admit those words.

Didn’t know if I could live up to them.

But he continued.

His daily sonnet.

            Confession.

His Patience.

And every time I felt it. Absorbed his words.

I hungered for them.

And he gave me life.

As time went on, as I said what I needed, I felt the taste change.

My words ripened.

“I love you.”

They caramelize in my mouth. Went down sweet.

Sugar.

Cream.

                        Heaven

                        is so close to those words.

Stillness

Stillness and a long stretch of road. Time has finally passed. I still think of you, only it's different now. Where you were once an overwhelming scream in my head you are now a whisper felt in breezes and moonlight. 

And occasionally I still have conversations with you in my mind.

Peace and a blue and white marble sky. I carry pain differently now. Like a caged bird I sing into heaven. I cannot fly to you but maybe you'll hear my song. It's a hope I never knew I needed.

I've Dreamed Up My World

I’ve dreamed up my world full of Egyptian crystals and Italian glass- Chinese roses and Caribbean shells. Pacing under sunsets and drinking the stars. The sand for my sheets, the sky for my room. A world with no limits- mirrored in the milky way.

I’ve dreamed up my world exploding with music- melodies and tunes- words clothed with notes. Sugary songbirds singing of life. A symphony of souls: each note unfolding like pedals blossoming into innocent harmony. A world with nothing more eternal that song.

I’ve dreamed up my world glowing with colors- sunbeams accepted and bouncing- raindrops to rainbows. Colors that weep, scream truth, bring peace. A living red, a jealous yellow. A blushing pink, a poisonous green. A silent white. Everything stripped of simplicity. A world crowded with the applause of beautiful colors.

I’ve dreamed up my world glittered with memories and moments- pockets of time never to be understood by those who were absent. Places and conversations with a pulse of their own. Personal or inviting- yet words can’t describe. A world with time so sacred that each rise and fall of the chest is counted.

I’ve dreamed up my world filled with people- enemies who’ve painted their strokes and best friends who brought with them life. Real people who smile, who listen, who cry. A family with painful love deeper than the seas.

I’ve dreamed up my world surrounded by him- his hands in my hair and his breath on my soul. With words that seal and silences that promise. Eternal kisses and morning stars. A world that connects with another

I’ve dreamed up my world haunted by angels- un-hushed whispers and saving arms. Footprints in stone and fluttering hearts. Unseen heroes and constant friends. A world cluttered with wings.

I’ve dreamed up my world saved by Him- a life and death- a bridge to the sun. A hand at my face when I fall. Crushed olives and tears- fallen gold, raised cross. The tragedy to set all free. Sacrifice and freedom. A world so filled with His Grace that it will never die.

Oh how I’ve dreamed up my world!
And oh!
How I live in my world.
Alive and awake dreams do come true
Oh yes, I’ve dreamed up my world.

June

The sun sets on her strawberry blond whisps.  She anxiously grabs each rope in her hands as I begin to move the tree swing, back and forth; up and down. Behind us the mountains glow amber. The air is warm. She sits on my lap and trusts me.

 

That moment was the most simplest of all moments I think I had ever beheld. There were no other kids to grab my hair and demand my attention- I was all hers. In fact, there was nobody around. Nobody but the trees and the bushes and the bugs. And us- right in the middle of God’s green summer, protected under our tree.

 

I knew that there were going to be crazy days ahead. Days filled with sickness, days flooded with homework and cleaning and driving and gossiping and baking. Days filled with lots of people and noises; politicians and friends. Days where she would say whole sentences and know more about the realities of life.

 

I often realize this in these moments. And so I leave my phone on silent and throw my head back. I try to breathe in more air and take pictures in my mind. I let them burn with the light and I know that 

 

I will never forget.

 

June was named “June” for a reason. She was named after my favorite month. It’s the beginning of summer- the month I finally feel safe and free from the cold. And it spreads out in front of it a whole summer of warmth. It’s the beginning of happiness for me. It leaves behind it all the grey and the ice. It only brings sun.

 

How could I forget?

 
She will always be there in my mind- sitting on my lap while we swing, babbling away under the sugary sun.

Always.

Game Board Map

When I was a young girl I used to take the “Candy Land” board from its game box, open it up, and stare at it. I looked over the green hills at the beginning and saw that there was adventure waiting beyond them. Great adventure. Filled with nutty grandmas and licorice men and lollypop princesses.

For me “Candy Land” was not a board game. It was a map.

 

After I had looked it over enough I was convinced that if I took it with me it would be my guide. I knew of some green hills not too far from home. I figured that was a good place to start. So I packed my backpack with some sandwiches and told my mom where I was going. She told me to be back in time for dinner.

 

And I never did find it. Yet all those curious feelings never left.

 

Instead, I started to grow up. And instead of seeing a map in board games, I saw a sea of faces. People.

 

 Humans became my map.

 

I found roads and mountains and oceans in them.
 

Got stuck in some sand. Found some unmarked trails.

 

And together we memorized the stars and used them to sail the dark seas. We found blackberries and happiness. We discovered fields of pain.

 

I had plans to go over the world, making my map; evolving my plan.

And in this pursuit I found something more.
 

I found inside each person, every single one of them, laid a map. So intricate and intriguing. The most adventurous maps I’d ever seen.

 

Especially in him, my best friend.

 

And now everyday I wake up to the best map I’ve ever seen- probably because I created her. She embodies all those sugary feelings- that epic sense of a journey. All I can make of it now are the green hills. And I know that over those lies the adventure I was always searching for.

In that moment

In that moment I hated everything. In all the glory and wonder of this earth; despite my knowledge of the blind, deaf, and paralyzed people and the fact that I was not one of them. Regardless of my home and food while others in the world suffocated in hunger and disease. Somehow none of that mattered. I knew there were countless couples that would trade all their quiet nights for all our sleepless and scream-filled nights. I knew that my angry and crying baby was a blessing. It meant that she was alive.

 

But yet.

 

In that moment I hated everything.

 

I wasn’t in the mood to be grateful. I just wanted to sleep.

 

I wasn’t even sane enough to admit to the comedy of it all. We had been trying for an hour to get her to sleep. We finally did and then some metal object fell from the stool Buck was sitting on, clinking on the floor and jolting June from her fragile slumber into grave-raising screams.

 

But then as Buck’s shadow danced over the ceiling in the nightlight while he swayed back and forth trying to sooth our little monster, I wondered- was there something more to all of this that I wasn’t understanding? Was there beauty born under the mellow moon each night as we struggled with new life?

 

And of course, there is. But it goes beyond blessings. Beyond us. It’s wound up in dark hours of helping each other and learning. Remembering. There is something unspoken that God is teaching us. Somehow those moments of frustration and shadows and tears are the moments we find ourselves communing with heaven.

 

Somehow.

You

I love.
 

And I feel this. And I long for.
 

You.
 

I feel it as real as I feel your fingers outline my jaw and neck, as my hip bones rest against yours.
 

I need that.
 

In it there´s darkness that cannot be lit. It´s there I feel you trace me. It's there I feel you breathe. And for this I cannot leave.
 

You.
 

I need you to see me. I have changed. I am ready.
 

I give it all up.
 

For your words. For all that could be.
 

You.
 

Do what you must. Fill me with pain. Strum down my skin and cover me in verse. Take what you will. Just leave me one thing.
 

You.
 

I am done with the fight. I´ve communed with my past. A silent seance has sent it away.
 

Trembling I wait.
 

I know what else has been twisted back there.
 

You.
 

But take my hand. Look up. Break free. Feel me whisper of it.
 

Freedom.
 

You.

He loves me, he loves me not

Carelessly she up roots the flower and begins to yank at it’s beauty- pulling her dress, petal by petal, from her green body. Dropping the colorful silk to the dirt, she seems to think her purpose is more important.

 

She sings.

He loves me, he loves me not.

 

And the blooming life cries, slowly surrendering to the human hands.
 

Unaware as they are, perhaps.
 

But selfish.

 

Only to find out that “he loves me not.”

 

The girl laughs, throwing the remains on the earth and running away saying something about next time and an odd number.

 

Was this what her life was for?
 

To die for someone’s foolish game?

 

As the flower lay dying, she wondered how God could have ever trusted her life with the giants.

Surely He knew this would happen.

 
She replayed the riddle in her soul, the last words stealing her last breath.
            He loves me. He loves me not.
            He loved me.
                        He loves me not.

If I could paint

I'll let you in on a little secret. If I could have any other talent, aside from the ones that I have, I would want to be a painter. A miracle worker with the canvas and paints. I would express myself with my brush and right there in front of my face I would find my emotions in the unspeakable colors.

I imagine what I would paint about the different events in my life. What colors would I use and where would they go? Would it be beautiful? Maybe it would be messy. Perhaps both?

And so I wonder: If I could paint my mission, what would it look like?

I can see the naked paper.                                     I would start with faded pastels, slowly growing but hesitant. You can feel them desiring to grow but then stop-
        Then I would take my brush and bring in an abrupt darkness. The black night will swallow up the deep purple dusk I had created. Swirling and screaming --> enveloping light!
                                                                                                And then you see her.
                                                                                                Small and fragile. Her faceless face looking
                                                                                                up into the crystal rain. I'd paint
                                                                                                the silence
                                                                                                the darkness
                                                                                                the wonder
                                                                                                falling from the endless black and gray movement.
And then- nothing.                  Blank.                           A burden lifts.
       How do you paint something so divine?
I'd attempt by sketching discrete music notes. Just one- then two. And then before your eyes you'd see them MULTIPLY & EXPLODE into an endless sky of sacred stars. You'll feel them sing. I'll bring in the light in thin brush strokes.
       Bursting and laughing. They dance around each other.
You'll feel immense gratitude for the colors. Maybe you'll even cry the relief is so beautiful in contrast.
But --
before you're done being thankful you see a dark blue being confused with the rest. You follow the smudge
             d
             o
             w
             n
                the canvas.
                                    There she is again.
                                     It's her.
                                     Surrounded by what looks like a pile of rocks.
                                     Her head hangs.

A group of suits stands huddled
to the side, their backs turned to
the scene. But one is peering over his shoulder. Another
                                                                             looks to the sky.

    There are scratches through the thick paint. And still all of them- faceless.
                                                                                                                           To the side of it all I'll     
                                                                                                                          paint a solid black area.
                                                                                                                          But a little light will enter in
                                                                                                                          and you'll see the shadow
                                                                                                                          of a stone.
   It begins           d ing & climbing into what appears to be steps.
                          l
                        i
                      u
                    b

Your eyes lead UP the abstract rhythm.
The texture of the paint is as interesting as it is intricate.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

But this is where it stops.
I wait for the end.




But here's what I want to happen:



At the top of the steps you see it drop off.                         You begin to look down
but then you realize that's not the important                      place to look.
   
So you look up and see two angel wings flying.
                                                                                                  And it's her.
                                                                        In  the middle of them.
                                                                         attached to the god-given flight.
       and at the end of the tired canvas you see brilliance portrayed in glittering colors.
             the pink, yellow, and red practically illuminate the paper.

    And that's how the painting ends- with the beginning of a sunrise. And then the final realization hits. It's hard to tell at first because you're concentrating on the scene. You didn't notice the shape of the outline. But now you see that it's all been done on the shape of a hand, a palm. It's subtle but you can't deny it.
    And that's who I give my mission to. It's in His hands. Where it should be.

Always.

I fear the night

The sky begins to bruise- deep blue into purple, while moon dust scratches across the stars. Dusk bleeds into twilight. Enchantment into fear.

Black.

Dark.

Every night. I’m scared of seeing her again. 

Her long dipped honey hair and skin of milk. The way the black drapes across her back, showing her in the silver light who she really is. 

A monster.

Trapped there in the silence. Music-less. Unholy.

I thought I had hid from her better than this. Perhaps run away. But she has found me again and I her.

And the struggle begins again.

I fear the night.

The Weeping Willow

The sky around her was yellow as she wept, crying her branches down to the earth. Through her curtain of sorrow, thick as it was, a lean trunk stood crooked but firm. And while it grew towards the sky her tears weighed heavy on the earth, though alive and green- she never knew. She wore her sadness as a gown. One layered and thick and weepy gown.

Next to her stood tall trees, aiming high and their branches up right. They did not droop. They did not cry. They were open and free and exposed.

And so the willow wept.

She never could see the beauty she was. She never knew that it was elegant to cry. To sob and to feel.

And the willow grew old.

Still unaware.

That the tragedy was not found in her tears.

But in the curtain that blocked her view.

I am free

I let my soul stand on its own and watch as it composes before a million universes-
For your brilliance has filled mine up;
           Yet somehow I need more.

I can only scream for so long and pretend that
    I don't see you.
                               But then
                                               for a moment
   I'll submerge my purity with yours.
If I'm to gain anything from this I will sing and each breath I should take will spell out a miracle.
       Don't ask questions- for now
       assumptions are safe.

But hold your head high
because your pride is my mirror and it's what's kept
me alive so far

Kiss me now and you will taste the fight
        But-                         Don't hold on.
              For some reason
I will kiss you back
and I have no idea why.

Yet somehow you know.

My reality becomes yours and you
lead me through a tunnel of June.

How have you done it? - I'll never
                                          believe.

For my belief is my surrender

   But I suppose that just for a minute
I'll sleep in your glory
   and your wonder will host my
   silence.
                I will hold to my memory
                                                         and then
   I'll give it back.                      I'm not ready for acceptance.

But your stature causes my passion to cresendo
and what else am I to do but to
harmonize your thoughts?

              And there it is.
        You have found my belief and you've
         obtained my surrender.
And your dangerous smile is the compass to what is mine.
                I fall to my knees.
                My heart applauds my failure

And I am free.

Too Late

I open the door. It creaks. The wood smells of history and I can see dust strolling in the strands of sunlight that is coming through thick glass windows. It's warm. The small isolated house is empty. Except one room. Upstairs. It's filled with sunlight and the view from the window reveals the endless fields and trees. On the floor of the room is one lone mattress. A big one- frosted with old pillows and blankets. It's here that I decide to lay down. In my white sun dress I sprawl out, trying to cover any empty spot.
I fail.
I've been here many times before. To the place where we began but never finished. No matter how many times I go back it's still the same:
I'm too late.
But I keep going because when I'm here I cannot locate time- not a single decade, year, month, day, hour- not even a minute. Which is where I lost you.

I keep hoping you'll be here.
Lost.
With me.
But no.
I'm too late.

As always, the sun begins to set. The crickets begin to call. I leave that room and find myself sitting on the haunted planks of the deserted porch.

Staring down the stars.
Jealous of the moon.

A silent breeze caresses me. For a second I swear I can feel you.
But no.
It's empty.
Because I know where you are. You're thousands of miles away from this place. In a home.

Complete.
With furniture.
With her.

And me?
I'm here
               except.
I'm too late.

You Never Came Back

You never came back.

Like an open grave

With no dirt to fill it

An unfair ghost

What good is an unmapped discovery?

Nothing but a temptation.

Another story to tell. 

A fingerless ring

a breath cut short

another empty night.

No stars, no sky

The swings blow lonely in the wind

a tall shadow

a soft echo

time.

It's there you'll always be

A thought

A dream

a world discovered

But never was.

An attempt to change

but another door closed

An afternoon turned red.

The purpose of life

from me to you

    discovered

            surrendered

           Lost

You never came back

Lets Go Back

Lets go back to that.

     Remember?

Lets go back

             Back to when memories didn't hurt. Back to the time we went swinging in the stars all night.

      Remember the silent wind as it blew through my hair

              That night I found more depth in your eyes than in the darkening orange and purple sky.

Lets go back to that.

Oh Lord, My God

Oh Lord, my God

      Oh Lord-

                    - My God

Hear my prayer! Hear my cry!

I need Thy Grace

           Oh help me try!

To Thee I kneel, to Thee I plead

My desperate soul

            You're all I need.

I promise thee

                       I'll give up me

My only strength, I seek thy love,

My only hope

             From up above

Help me win this silent fight

Pick me up

              Hold me tight

I promise thee

                        I'll give up me

My empty fears I'm clinging to,

I'll give them up

               For something new

I'll stand inside Thy endless sky

Please give me wings

                and then I'll fly!

I promise Thee

                         I'll give up me!

Oh Lord-

               - My God!

On Being Pregnant

Under tightly spun silver clouds- a ray of sun dances in me

 

And as the world looks on to darker days, as the earth begins to undress- slipping out from her tired robe,

 

I sing.

 

And I know you can hear me; that somehow a piece of sky sleeps in me now- Slumbering on, unaware of the elements that will soon be draped across your face.

 

Today, the rain reverences you.

 

And I too, bow low, to the power that brings you here.

Inside me I am traveling further than any plot of land, on a road through silence. We go. You come. And with you, you bring some semblance of home.

35,000 Feet

I told him as we were over 35,000 feet in the air, supported by metal, unmovable wings- sliding through crystal air. The sun filled the lines of plastic windows on our left like they were apart of a coloring book. The rays were cheap and brassy. The clouds were below us, a rippling white sea.

 

I told him there.

 

Told him that the past few days I had felt different and that on this day the voice whispered to me of the change. That my soul was no longer alone. That I carried two hearts, three kidneys and now- two spirits.

 

He smiled, he glowed. We both fell reverent.

 

            The next day I found blood, fallen fresh from my womb. A shocking, bright amount. More than there ever should be.

And now here I lay, waiting to see if the person inside of me can hold on.

Snip-its

Here are a couple things. Really, just things. So often I have little snip-its of things that I want to write, even though they are small and have no path yet. 


---

He always had a peculiar smell of oranges about him and it seemed his body was filled with sap. Combined with that and his ever-scruffy face and rough calloused hands, one could mistake him for a tree.

And perhaps he thought he was one as well.

He spent his days outside, growing from the sun as if he had leaves.You could find him anywhere that was blanketed with a silence woven by the tapestry of bird songs.


-----

 
That evening the sky burned the deepest orange- glowing like we were in the belly of the very oven itself turning glass into waves of molten lava. Behind me the mountains candied with pink frosted peaks. Below the sunset the silhouetted bones of winter trees reached up, scratching the surface and digging in- pulling the vibrance into the ground. Slowly, so slowly, causing red to shoot from its core, encircling the sky. How could something look so warm when it was zero degrees outside, the ground covered in ice and snow?

I drove on.
And when I got to the stop sign where I was suppose to turn Left- I hesitated. I suddenly took that red octagon as great advice.

STOP.

Surrounded in the final ribbon of colors from the sun I made up my mind.

And pressing the gas pedal I turned Right instead.

-----

There was something, always something about that day. Green grass ran straight into violent clouds. Maybe that day I somehow knew- knew that I would end up with him. Even though I wasn’t, at the time, with him. He was there, in every whispering blade, he was there.

Today I stood outside our little house. The wind started to come, rolling down the street. I heard it hit each musical tree on its way until it reached me. And as it hit, I felt something, or maybe I heard it. This ancient piece of air- I had felt it before. It was there that day. And somehow it had found me again. 

 

-------

 

I told him all of this as we sat there. I started to cut the bread that had been brought to us on an old wooden board. He slowly drank from his coffee cup. The room was brown and full of smoke. A diner stuck in some past decade, those past years clinging to its carpet and walls.

His reaction, I felt, was unfounded.

How slowly he left me there, alone with my soup and bread.
Yet.
How quick he was to go.