Change is Still Coming

It's been a long time coming--so long in fact the expectancy has waned. The tent dwellers no longer stand in their doors gazing at the stars and the watchers in the fields have given up. The walls around the city stand waiting to be torn down as people stumble over the rubble in the streets. Strange how no one desires anymore to build up the waste places but rather stand around shouting about the rats roaming the gutters. One voice cries continually warning and begging for change. But mobs gather around chanting the name of their chosen one of the hour as he hides himself among the crowd waiting for the frenzy to peek in order to make an entrance. They lift up rocks from the rubble and begin to stone the voice--but he still stands. Unrelenting in their attack but their minds no longer persuade them to pick up the pieces scattered and begin to rebuild. They seem to have forgotten how they crafted the city and paved the roads. They seem to have forgotten how to pray.

At the Gate

The seeds have long since been carried away in the breeze passing along a message which can only be interpreted by those waiting for instructions. They look under rocks or they turn to bushes hunting down words for guidance or sometimes a place to hide. The rocks cleft will provide a refuge like a strong pavilion. A place to bandage their wounds or to fly away to rest.

The message scattered abroad searching for the right ground. The composition scripted in code, only the seer can interpret the meaning or someone possessing the words of knowledge to speak words of faith. There first must be an offering a prelude to go before the message. The heavens will loose it's divine will once the seeker has offered the right sacrifice. It's amazing how many come this far and refuse to bow or ask for mercy.

The seer interprets the vision and lays their hand on the seekers head. The past and future all revealed the load of guilt relieved and hope somehow passes through the palm of the hand.

All in the sanctuary are pleased they praise in the tabernacle. They find peace at the gate and strength at the door. Grace standing on one side and mercy holding down the other, they turn in wonder, they leap with joy.

Propensity

The energy in the space feels like home. The way it lands on the skin and the way it makes the mind move. There's musical sounds vibrating off the walls causing the feet to tingle. It's been a long time since the tango has been performed here and the floor remembering relaxes to allow the new dancers leverage falling in sequence with their breathing forgetting the scars of the past.

Unfruitful Search

It was if the dream had a purpose. To make me remember those days I roamed the halls expecting something exciting to happen. One last adventure before too much time passed and gravity had it's way. The search never yielded any results just a lot of time spent alone with ones own hands.

Buried Words

Time has passed but the message in the bottle buried in the sand read as if it was written in the moment. Words have a way of being in the present even if the past appear to have changed the feelings behind them. Maybe they made their escape when the universe permitted. If they had been found a moment sooner the world as we know it would no longer be the same. Nevertheless, the wet sand couldn't hold back their weight. They found a place to rest--to hide within the folds.

Sepia Moments

Sun Rising II

My soul raised up to meet the sun
The sun bending down to me
This vessel feeling some relief

The Spirit stood still within
The whispers came on the wind
My soul raised up to listen

My flesh moved in subjection
The energy too strong to resist
Searching the mind of the Spirit

Sun's Rising

Sun's rising, feel the warmth on my skin
Taking the chill from my aching bones
My feet feel like moving, dancing

I could reach and grab her, taste her
It's hard to stand still, hold my peace
My heart feels like singing, rejoicing

Wish I could hold her, keep her
Drive the fear out with heat
I feel like rising

Muddy Wings

Gotta get this mud out my wings
Speaking to me calling me names
Making me stink of fear and shame

Wash me, make me clean
Anger, fear stuck in my wings
Holding me down staying the same

Gotta get this mud out my wings
Marring whatever I touch
Magnifying failure disguising blame

Wash me, make me clean
Faith, hope I can feel
Lifting me above the crimson stains

Strange Fruit

The wind swept through and life changed like the seasons. Suddenly there was a shift and everything seemed to float around in the air as if gravity no longer had any power. Once the power used to hold life in place--now non-existent. The thieves came through and stole the light because they had lived in darkness all of their days and couldn't bare the thought of someone else tasting the sun. Without light there was no longer a source for heat. I found an old robe to drape over myself it was the only thing that seemed familiar--even the art on the wall became strange. Like strange fruit the pieces looked inviting but instinct unctioned that poison lied within.

This space no longer carried the same song--it now bellowed. The hollowed drum walls will have to be dressed again and arrayed with the fragrance of laughter. Lighter days await when the sun will shine through to warm the cold stale air. It will chase away the dark and cause it to hide somewhere else. I can almost see the bastard running down the street--it's tail between it's legs.

Belielf in the power to change the season to redirect the wind.

Shattered into a powdered dust never to be completely mended. It will have to be immortal not to hurt any longer. Time won't heal even the crimson stains will remain somewhere.

Restless

Moving like the moon does when it follows you around at night,restless, always watching--mocking your every move. Sometimes the shadows don't belong to who they have been assigned to but rather decoys to throw you off the scent especially when you are chasing reality. On the surface, and with lies spoken about you across the table when you're not present, it would appear you are a horrible person and one without feelings. This couldn't be further from the truth. But who knows the truth or rather who can discern lies when they are being spoken. Sometimes lies are tangible! I can see the crooked letters as they depart from the deceivers mouth. They think their intentions have been carried out. They have no idea I'm watching them like the moon.

Tamed

Forgotten, back broken without strength to fight. Fight against the strong arms of submission. But rather succumbing to it's spell. Subdued with a smothering fog covering the floor of the mind. The flames blown out from the chill in the nights air. Wild things want to remain free. Free to roam and lurk between walls and pose in disguise using unfamiliar tones understood solely by those not bound.

I peeked around the corner to see if I could see who was speaking. The words sounded familiar. They once were spoken directly to me, but now they are addressed to some stranger. I stared in their direction to see if they could understand the abstract. Some would rather speak figuratively without leaving anything to interpretation. I understand, but where is the mystery? It's not good to always live inside a box. Whenever the chance might present itself to inhale one might miss the moment having always lived within the stale aroma.

Death

Give me words to write away the pain that fills every crack of my broken heart. It's hard to imagine time will heal this ache. And I'm not sure I want it to least I forget.

My Father’s Last Prayer

Lord have mercy on my soul
Nigh unto me even unto my own mouth

Lord I stretch my hand to thee no other help I know
If thou withdraw thyself from me whether shall I go

I have called on thee in good times and in sorrow
I have one more river to cross

Lord take me by the hand and lead me on
I’m tired, I’m weak, I’m worn

I see you standing with your arms outstretched
I’ll rest in your bosom
Wash my weary feet in the river Jordan

Higher Than I

The wind kept blowing
I couldn't catch my breath
Sounds of drums pounding in my ears

I kept moving
I couldn't stop searching
Sounds of hope pounding in my ears

Praises kept coming
I couldn't stop singing
Sounds of the higher rock pounding in my ears

Psalms 61:2 "From the end of the earth, will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed; lead me to the rock that is higher than I."

Waterfalls

I didn't see anything holding me but my feet wouldn't obey any commands. The clues hadn't come yet but fear hadn't set in either. Falling was out of the question! Something to hold on to just in case was none existent.

Plunging is all together different. The freedom of defying the banners people wave constantly over your head and ignoring the hour on the dial pretending wings lie underneath.

A chance to take more than a shallow breath to listen to the water as it falls into the river. Teaching us, calling us, setting us free.

Seeds

Sprouting from underneath the dirt
Breaking through unveiling hidden agendas
Constant flashes of moving words manipulating the soil
Deep roots now entangle like the strings of a puppeteer

Fresh Manna

I looked up and I had fallen again. What's waiting is so fresh. Fresh like the manna sent to sustain. Fresh like the water of a happen upon brook. Youth doesn't know this place. Days past has taught me to welcome what's before me and leave the questioning to those still looking for missing pieces. The discovery isn't as difficult as the journey. The bitter only taste sweet at the end. Still I found pleasure along the way. Reflecting on the detours causes me to pause for a smile. The kind one gives when he knows the secret to the puzzle. You wonder who is privy to this link. You search the eyes of others looking to see who has made the discovery. You would share it but you know those yet to began will not care to listen. Listen to your tales of fallen over and over again. You stand by and watch the torment they will undergo while you taste the sweetness of the manna now melting on your tongue.

Peace doesn't come in a bottle it has to be something you slide into like a pair of shoes. With every step you become more confident. At first, the ground seems as if you're standing on ice. The taste of grace seems as if it belongs to someone else. You're not sure who exactly, maybe the people who testify they never need it. You on the other hand have become dependent upon it. After you learned how to walk across the river you look for it on every table.

Peace takes the sting out of your tears and makes you smile at the evil doer. You wait to see when they are coming down. You won't necessarily be the one to pull the plug--there are others standing in line. You just wave as they pass by chanting words and carrying the sign of peace.

The weight has come to rest on the eyelids. They refuse to close for fear it may be the last time they see movement. Lately the days aren't reminiscent of time spent sipping from cups. Not even the fancy cups my grandmother served to the ladies with embroidered handkerchiefs in their purses.

The fingerprints then were small and didn't have many secrets to hold but were full of expectation. Mischief was ordinary and leaving before one hundred years were filled was out of the question. Of course, this type of longevity requires daily renewal.

The prints of sin can hide the value of the heart like bad abstract art. Still it isn't as easy to avoid as once believed. It stands on every corner waiting to weigh in.

Everlasting seems so far away yet we try to seal time in a jar like the preserves we have stored away for when the snow storm comes and there's no escaping for food. Time is moving quickly it's hard to imagine a day seeming as a thousand years. Even when the days seem longer the quality of time does not compare to what can fit into one day. Wasted moments never to be tasted again. Meaningless mundane chores dictating whether or not you can keep the lights on or the belly full. Purpose seems as if it turned the corner without you and you try desperately to remember the beginning.

Moving is more complicated than it appears. The act of motion one would first imagine as being propelling. Until you realize you have passed the same landmark yet again. You gave up counting because it reminded you of how gullible you really are. Markers in time or maybe little stamps placed on the soul like the tasteless mementos we purchase at gas stations when we are on road trips.

How can now be so present and timeless at the same time? Forwardly thinking, hoping--propelling to the next stop on the road. The journey has no script and whatever notes you can find spread between the intersections may have been edited to mislead you into thinking you're headed in the right direction. In fact, you can't even trust your survival instincts at this moment. It's all subjective and the notion of faith in surviving has all but dissipated.

The letter failed to tell who it was from and to whom it was addressed to. But the words were unmistakeably between two people who were acquainted with one another. The tone pre-luded the words and the aroma from them filled the mind as it was being read and the lips on command began to move to give them the voice they called for. There was no date. Time didn't seem to change the significance of the message.

Folded back up it now lay in the bottom of the chest leaving it to the mind to conjure up a tale for the next verse and plots to fill in the time that has surely passed.

This like so many mysteries can leave a bitter taste behind when over and over again the images of the two remain just that images. As if they are expected to enter the room at the same time but at opposite ends to discover they have unknowlingly accepted an invitation to the same gala--only to leave still alone.

There's an empty cocoon hanging on the ledge and the sunlight is exposing the cobwebs in the corner. It's quite obvious some time has passed since the last visit not to mention the last cleaning. Who spends there afternoon paying attention to such details anyway? The only type of person that comes to mind is supposedly extinct--a domestic of some sort. The real question is where is the creature that has evidently made it's escape and how far can the imagination take him and what adventures will he have upon arrival? It's really three fold and the possibilities are as endless as the summer skies waiting on a fall moon. It's easy to leave when the sun is the highlight of the sky. Just wait and see if there is strength in the limbs when winter's bite is lingering and the air is still as the night.

Cycles

Be leery of the one who is willing to pour out all the contents of his wallet and leave them on the table just because today is Thursday and Wednesday made him want to scream. The skin quickly reacts and wants to join in, but you must tell it to behave. It can not shed and walk around on it's own waiting for another soul; therefore, you are in control! At least until the electricity on the bottom of your feet reaches the intersection of your soul and you want to peel off your skin as if it were a loose garment. It's amazing how freedom is contagious until it must be followed by courage. The courage to walk out and close the door. The door to yesterday because you realize you can't go back no matter how you play the scenes over and over in your mind. Tomorrow is Friday, and yes there is an end in sight, but remember Wednesday will come again.

Friends are not easy to come by. Those willing to accept you as you are--ragged and proud. But when you happen upon one standing on the play ground looking for someone to spill their life's dreams to the connection is powerful. The secrets told as easy as half truths to one another remain hidden underneath the rock that seals the friendship. It's hard to imagine how you managed to cross the street by yourself before, how you seem now to be able to swing a little higher than before. Apparently you didn't know there was such an invention--the existence of such an entity.

There's a silence in the room as if too much has already been said. No one will take the blame for the stench in the air--but it's clear it has been lingering for some time. The reaction to those entering does not appear to be foreign and they pass through quickly not willing to uncover the mold at the edge of the windows.

Time and attention will have to be given to the egg residue left in the pan on the stove. Days have passed and it will probably end up like everything else--discarded as if it never had any value, as if it was nameless.

No one bothers to check the mail and respond to the surveyor's request. They would rather ignore it until they no longer send such correspondence to them. This has worked for them before and for some reason makes them feel superior. But who wants to stop receiving postcards or even holiday greetings. Birthdays come once a year --but at least the card on the table reminds us that someone cares.

Moonless Night

This night has no moon
Hidden as if it has no duty
To warm lovers as they walk
Rekindling the shine in the cool breeze

The fowler with his snare seeks to trap the ignorant walking, eyes covered, ears closed. They trust their betraying flesh. They listen to it rumble allowing it to rise. The fowler sets his trap eagerly awaiting his prey. The lame crawling on his knees waiting for his change. Too ashamed to look up and live, to stand underneath the stains of the tree. He passes out, his mind in agony. Loosed and set free, he feels his leg, the hollow now made whole.

The Wind brought rain
Falling down on me
Filled my empty places

The Wind brought words
Speaking to me
Assured my staggering soul

The Wind brought joy
Over shadowing me
Lifted my head bowed in shame

Tea Party

The days are spent deceiving the ignorant, laughing at the disarmed, chanting after the proud and engaging the foolish. The vomit that fills the mouths of the wicked are now standing in vitrines on every corner. They spill over into the streets mopping up the innocent too blind to realize they are treading among bile. The stench of the waste permeating their garments now clinging to their weakened bodies. Too lazy to reason on their own and too poisoned to own their own minds they collide into one another mocking the caucus floating down at their feet.

Covered

The night slipped away like it had something to go hide.
Only time yet to come will uncover this moon's secrets.
When it's safe to utter what happened under it's watch.
Somehow it has remained hidden as if it was untrue.

The earth covers again allowing the fallen to ask for redemption.
In the meantime it covers, under the sun it still hides.
As if it has unfolded and made a place within.

It will remain swept away like the stars, ushered away at dawn.
It has asked for it's prints to be erased.
Only to be remembered by those who wake up owning the shame.

A Cloudy Dawn

There's a stirring underfoot, a roaring like thunder.
A mind to turn the corner to meet the open door.
Distance can't dim the brightness of the light.

There's a praise rising, overflowing in the soul.
Words to encourage as they leave the tongue.
By standers can't stop the stride of the rhythm.

There's a sweetness in the air, denying the bitter sting.
An aroma sent on the the wind troubling the water.
Weariness can't resist the rest of the promise.

There's a stillness in the air of a cloudy dawn.
Clouds to hide the terrors of the night.
Starry blackness soon forgotten with the sun.

Circles

There are many beginnings along the road. If you can find those along the way that will permit the erasing of the missed turns.

The past sometimes troubles speaking as if it isn't satisfied to stay hidden behind the tree. It can be mistaken for the shadow until it moves in the opposite direction--the unforgettable aged odor stirring.

Those scenes once explored and left behind because they frightened act boldly. Now the way becomes obscure and the same stone marks the beginning again.

Speaking of clay

Breathing clay.
Not on his own.
Walks off the wheel.
The master reproduces the design.
Adding colors, feathers and limbs.

The black hummingbirds are wise.
Living among their enemy.
Too fast for him to catch
They'll have to settle for the ignorant instead.

The clay moves mimicking his surroundings.
Speaking, walking, standing.
The ground now under his feet.

Instinct

My intuition tells me I'm about to stumble upon another place in the road. A place once hidden like a snake on a trail coiled as if it doesn't mean to do any harm. We all know this isn't true. As soon as you turn your back it's sticking its tongue ready to strike or even worse to seduce. The spell it caste isn't easy to break. In fact, it will take several weeks at the foot of the alter crying out before it will loosen its grip. This is if you haven't gotten accustomed to the numb feeling the venom provides. You could loose yourself in the haze and walk around with your eyes glazed over staring into space. Of course, you will go on pretending you are paying attention to everything everyone is saying to and around you. While all the time you are dreaming of what took place once you tasted the forbidden. And not directly but abstractly as to distract those who are attentive to the language. My intuition is ringing loud and clear and choking every ounce of resistance from within.

Night Light

Faith lies in my soul.

Strength seals the break.

In the night season comes light.

Shining within my soul.

If the rumors are true? If the mountain tops touch the horizon? If the clouds fall asleep and don't just fade away? There will be another tomorrow another day unlike any before or any to come again.

The uniqueness of creation, the mystery of dawn humbles man. The vastness of glory! His place compared to the sun all measured between the hours before the moon replaces the ball of fire, before the stars clothe the sky, before light no longer guides.

Is there a script for his days? Aimlessly, hopelessly, homeless-ly, helplessly drifting from shore to shore. The clues come in puzzles, the answers revelations. But then again who is man when compared to the sun?

When the room is closing in, the air is tight and time is short you must lift the lid, step outside the box and stretch.

The evening clouds played nest to a moon almost in full bloom. Formally dressed, the night unfolded itself and emerged at the feet of the stars.

Costumes can't hide humiliation. This garment hangs like a noose cutting the wind from the pipes rendering the lungs useless. It's hard to escape and hide behind a large bush or fall through a convenient hole. The worse is we know we are making complete fools of ourselves and the regret we will feel later will not be worth the process--yet we continue. As if writing the ending to a horror film for second rate actors. Those out of work posing as waiters in real life.

There is something that will make a fool out of me every time. Actions I know will turn and haunt me from that moment on--but still I chase after it. Searching like the beggars ringing the door bell--only they have dressed for the occasion.

God is a bad Man!

The leaves pass away gracefully.
Trees stand naked waiting to be arrayed again.

The sun burst onto the scene.
It solemnly exits at dusk.

The clouds in script the sky.
Their message erased by the deep purple.

With his finger the moon stood.
With his breath the waters moved.
With his word my sins blotted.

None his confidant,
None granted passage to his mind.

God is a bad Man!

Sometimes the night is short and the rest is deep--not this night. The need for more than rest has prevented any peace. The hands can't sweep it away and morning still is coming. Entering into the world oddly but sure of its place. It has already been named.

Marks in the evening sky the day before dissipated with the sun with no interpretation left behind. The encrypted message a sign of what was before and what is to come. We watch the sky for streaks like tea leaves.

We look for a covering favoring the quilt stitched with fallen tears. For the demands we make or prayers we pray to have found somewhere to rest. We look for answers to come to us in the night when the body refuses to rest, when lovers won't submit to one another and the fireplace becomes a friend. Expecting the dawn to cause us to forget how the moon seemed so far away that it caused us to weep.

Hazy Morning

First light slipped in muddled by the night's images.
The thorny places are hard to unearth.
Trapped doors on either side.

Skeletons walk in the light.
Mixtures of draped vignettes.
Screens pierced through with stinging darts.

Hazed over this morning mocks.
It has no shame.
Laughing, seeking to bury hope.

Latter Rain

Heaven seems closed. It's done that before. The ground crackles until pleas can be heard from every break. There isn't time to be concerned with the dust underneath the feet, the ill taste on the tongue or the creases around the eyes. There is something rumbling behind the clouds. It can be felt on the floor of the belly and on back of the knees. The freshness alarms the nose the way a trumpet preludes a new day. This is what you look for when the night season seems long. When the answer doesn't come in the wind, when you stand at the gate waiting to hear it thunder--waiting to feel the coolness of the rain.

Half Moon

You know the other side is there. It's mystery stirs something within. It keeps entering into your dreams as if to leave a message. When you search it out in the morning the answers are locked deep. You want it to trust you, to show itself under the sun.

Without strength the blood still stains the tree

Stumbling in darkness the light still brightens Zion

In sinking sand the stone still hewed out the mountain

Head bowed in shame grace and mercy still stand near

The end of summer nights regrettably move on making room for a season filled with cold days. They take with them the sweetness from the air and the dew from the front lawn. They become as ghost. And when an attempt is made to conjure up the atmosphere once again they slip away like the lizard on the back porch scurrying away to the past. Nothing remains except for the photographs taken while on the vacation meant for curing everything that ached all year long. No wonder the smiles on the faces look painted on and not true to the celebration. They fail to capture the youth in the eyes and the expectancy of the ocean's air. Instead when no one was looking the lens etched out the sadness even when the eyes were staring out into the distant row of houses. Where they could imagine days hid on top of a mountain instead of a valley. Where the earth meets the sky and its clay dust the floor like that of gold and with one reach a cloud could be pulled down and kneaded. Its extraction would be used to moisten and protect the skin. There would be no regrets. No need to capture a significant moment in a frame for each day would be a continuation of the one before.

It's hard not to respond to the tempo. Hard not to tap your feet to the sounds gyrating off the walls. The memory of your first kiss in the poke-a-dot shirt seem so far in the past. You wonder what attracted you to that person in the first place. The taste of salty skin surfaces and you feel silly as you touch your lips. The idea of being care free again is now buried away like old newspaper clippings in the cedar chest at the foot of the bed. You review your progression stanza by stanza still wondering about your timing.

The silence of the night rest on the ears bringing everything to a stand still. In the middle of the road a reminder to keep your eyes fixated until you feel pain--pain in the abdomen. The kind lingering upwards to the throat refusing to leave unless attended to. And you would if you knew what the actual origin of the problem. One morning brought a shovel full and it's been hard to either re-bury or at least sprinkle it over the top soil as to make it stand for something. The stench is still very much present as people avoid you like the plague. So much so until you believe you have been plagued--disregarded and left to be subjected to lies. The truth of course comes with a price.

Pamela Cone and LaJoya Reed | Sinclair Community College

Pamela Cone and LaJoya Reed | Sinclair Community College

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The mechanism is broken but there isn't anything wrong with the design. The wheels sometimes turn too fast and other times too slow. Oftentimes as if it doesn't have anyone at the controls at all. These instances are sporadic of course and the test results are inconclusive. This inevitably sparks the debate on what can actually be charted? Statistically speaking of course--and who wants to record the data? Employed to meticulously jot down every time the mind drifts and the emotions follow. Who could actually chart such evidence and what form of graph would one use? I would imagine the information would be matched to those with paralleling symptoms, similar demographic locales and of course those too suffering from dying. The latter would include everyone entering into this hemisphere. No one leaves this place untouched. And sometimes the evidence can't be assessed.

I walked away from it. When I returned it no longer looked the same. The taste was quite different on my tongue. I no longer recognized the flavor. The texture and proportion was the same--I concluded it, the change, must have been internal. The temperature had changed due to the change of the season, but each season before never had the power to extract a different response. In fact, it was the opposite. Each scene promoted a different view, a new scenario. Absence appears to have been the best remedy. It seems to remain dissipated even when I try to conjure up the recipe again.

If I could hear or see myself from a strangers perspective--how would I sound? It would be interesting to see if they could see past the obvious. If they would actually take time to listen to the inflation of my tone whenever something or someone amuses me. I have a tendency to set things on the display shelf and later (depending on the emotion) try to distort their meaning. Or either pretend what is visible isn't real. It's easier to believe time will permit the truth even when you know the space will never be fluid. Yet we still hold our breath for the future when the universe is aligned parallel to our innermost desires. For the time when the one who fits our soul will suddenly appear sitting next to us on an airplane on their way to vacation too in the Mediterranean.

Sometimes memories are false, then they by some peoples definition are lies. I would like to think otherwise. When the recollection of conjured up words spoken in the swollen air sound sweeter than the true screeches of night this is when I reserve the right to remember the stories I told to myself.

The coffee is strong and sweet this morning with no dreaded bitter after-taste. The sun woke up victorious as the night, defeated, went and hid. The rest seemed short but the eyes woke up refreshed, ready to uncover a new wonder. Time unravels quickly--it's hard to catch when standing still. Moving with it will propel any effort of motion. Just don't fight the wind! It's strength is greater and the arms will quickly tire. By the time evening comes they will hang down by the knees begging to excrete the pressure. Patience is the key to a good brew.

There is something lying between the last sentence and the next. Something that will linger for days and perfume the empty space. And what would have happened had the words escaped through the gate? Would the next day have begun any differently? If we were in possession of the ability to rewind to the moments which now fill us with the stench of resentment, would we now posses the courage as well to allow words to become attached to our inner appetites?

I would rather not have the stretched out fields of my days resemble the fenced in dumps we pass by quickly so as not to deal with the guilt of our waste. No, I would rather nourish the soil with the lessons of humility and respect--not to mention restraint. There is something to be said about being disciplined. I'm not quite sure what, but it keeps you in your own bed at night. It keeps you looking towards Heaven asking for what you are not always willing to lend to others. It makes you pause before you utter the next verse.

Something has changed. Either it passed or it never was real to begin with. Even though you felt the wind on your skin it isn't enough proof of substance. Substance doesn't slip through your fingers without leaving a stain. Maybe it was camouflaged. The way soldiers can hide in the sand. And if this is true,it's still hiding.

No one else has knowledge or can see what you see in the distance. Even standing looking directly into the sunlight when all the images walking towards you appear as shadows. When you thought you saw the lover of your soul walking into your life only to realize they weren't headed in your direction. They had already attended another ceremony a few miles earlier.

Emotions

Sadness, an emotional feeling
Brought by pain and sorrow
Hurt by life, no feeling inside
A cold heart pumping warm blood
Numb, mind with no Soul

by: Stephen Cone (my 15 year old son)

The thought of waking up one morning and the words parting my lips not matching the words running through my mind is enough to cause me to hold on tight. The mere terror of imagining droll streaming down my chin is frightening and causes me to continuously write my name on strips of paper and strategically hide them throughout the house. Sometimes I'm aware of the traffic scavenging through my mind looking for a corner to lurk and take root. Some have found fertile ground and have reeked havoc on things I once knew to be true. In fact, I would have placed my most prized possessions on their validity. Now I have more questions than answers simply because they once didn't exist. Their fabrication startles me. They are tangible and are not willing to disappear. They don't appreciate being ignored. Therefore, it isn't likely they will starve to death or even suffocate. They breathe on their own, they claim their own space, they say what my mind is unaware of.

Like wolves searching for prey to feed their young, women examine one another. From split ends to crusty heels to every chipped nail in between, they note. They sniff the brand of perfume and cosmetics for each other's value. And then the dance begins. Sisterhood is hung out on the line. This orchestrated display amuses me to say the least. Women derive some form of warped pleasure from the sport. And lurking in the background is some salivating male waiting to partake of the spoils.

The muck had covered everything. Whatever happened between then and that present moment made the water clean. For once in a long time both reflections matched. Even the morning coffee wasn't as bitter and the sunlight didn't sting her eyes when it parted the blinds. It was clear something had changed. Amazed, she now stood above the murky clay.

Should the walls one day happen to speak they would tell tales quite different from the ones told by those who have hid behind their covering. The art work on the wall would suddenly come to life and the characters would recite lines written in journals tied with red ribbons stored in the closet. The words would leap off the page waiting to be spoken on someones lips, to peruse somebodies tongue. These once nameless, lifeless characters would find the garments meant to be worn only on special occasions (infamous dinner parties perhaps) and put on the shoes still wrapped in the box. When evening would come they would step out into the night air looking for some place to dance until the sun came up again.

She's become accustomed to his detachment. She looks for other ways to prove whether or not he thinks about her even when he's promised he wouldn't. Of course, she has done the same, but the fixation apparently stands in concrete. At least for her. She may not even be the subject of his hallucinations or the accusations.

But it could all be a sign of how delusional she has become over the last past two years. Once satisfied with everything remaining the same, she now looks for them to change. There must be a reason stemming from some sort of discontentment with how the trees are securing the lawn, with the red bird no longer making an appearance, with the air smelling the same.

The answers haven't shown up yet. The insecurities still linger making the air stale. The seeds were planted some time ago. Unaware of their genesis it's impossible to explicate. The extremities reach every hiding place without an exodus. They loop back suffocating any desire to continue to ask questions. Will the solutions bring life to anything prepared to rot? When they walk into the room will it be too late to make a difference? Will they temporarily satisfy the appetite? Will they rest on the tongue long enough to change the direction of the air?

Speaking at the End

Hanging at the seams are the answers. The questions still lie on the table with the scraps. They are divided among those who will search for the unseen. The reasons why we walk upright. Why we reason on our own but still need a guide. The theories may not all fit. They may become just as much a mystery. But the questions mean more.

II.
No one is interested in the content--only the label and its size. Branded before time could finish the product. Unsure if the first half will match the second. In the meantime, the intermission is full. And the regret is bitter about the future.

III.
Requests, ones spoken desires. Some locked inside, left as a secret. They may not be legal in the sense of obeying laws, but they can reach a point in which they make their own laws. Taking on shapes and walking around searching for a fence to rest on. Seizing the moment, they disregard asking permission, abandon the rules of physics, and sweep up the crumbs that fall from the table.

IV.
No ones talking. This is a failed attempt to make it untrue. However, the evidence is on the table--their prints mar the walls. They would rather pretend it's some sort of illusion. If this is true, we must all walk around with the same delusions. How else can you explain the common emotions? Explain how pie taste sweet to everyone with a normal palette. Explain how summer is warm. Some things can't be packaged. They just show up at the front door as if they have lost their way, stumbling in the dark.

V.
The whispers are getting louder. They haven't found their way to their intended victim. The speculations blow wildly in the wind. The daggers are ready to pierce with fire.

VI.
Before you claim yourself you'll give your soul to another. Not sure if you are worthy to posses such freedom. The freedom to own yourself, to wear your own name. Not a slave to faith, but to those who die daily as you do. Those too vulnerable to die alone.

Sometimes it seems it's easier to pretend something is there when you actually know wholeheartedly there isn't. It's not like you can see the stirring in the trees or feel the heat on your skin. Rather it's similar to searching underneath the floor boards for what you have apparently misplaced. Yet it still hasn't reappeared and the light's dimmer than before. You begin to question has your mind played with you again engaging the emotions until they employed the other senses. Who knows how long this will continue? When the leaves change it'll be another year.

Shake my soul
Your voice she remembers
Like the ripples on the water
She will be moved

After the crows came
To peck at my flesh
Your shadow
Sealed the gashes

She will lap from the fountain
Bathe in the stream content
My heart will beat again
Covered in your words

The thick air weighs heavy against the skin a reminder some things are not in our control. Cutting through tires out the limbs leaving them limp on the walkers sides. Nevertheless, the outside calls early with the morning dew even when the night sweats keep them lying awake. They come as a reminder as well. Nudging places hazy nights only seem to stir. They begin then to walk in their sleep. Their minds won't allow their bodies to rest and their bodies won't allow their minds to be still. There's a longing that cries in the silence of the night. It grows louder as the floor boards squeak underneath the slippers. When they awake in the morning covered in lint, they'll wonder when did they drink the water from the glass now sitting on the table.

The raspy sound of my voice empty as if it came from someone else. I often stop to listen to its tone. I wonder if anyone notices when I do so. I check to see if the sound turns on me and decides to say what I have ordered it not to. Anything sealed like the idea of finding anyone who walks upright as I do. One to pour the contents of my heart into--to think what I am willing to extend will be returned.

I looked into the eyes of those both old and new to see if what I was looking for lied within the pupils. I thought I had found it. And just as I reached for it, it turned. It moved as if it couldn't trust what it felt. As if the sound of my voice pierced its ears causing them to bleed.

Enduring the Moment

The night seasons clothes are tattered. Anger tore them, exposed the naked flesh. The promises made didn't keep away the grave. The pit opened its mouth to receive its fallen.

They're ready to dance, to mark the end, to rejoice in another one's error.

The neighbors, dressed for the funeral, hastily dug the grave. No words were spoken at the ceremony. They had forgotten the kind acts of the past. They fled from the site. They even forgot the poor souls name. Only the date marked the stone.

The Taste of Dust

A crimson worm, it's belly so close to the earth. The clay finds a way to cling to the skin hiding in the folds. The stench is as unbearable as the deeds. How long must I suffer? How long will you leave me in this vile state?

What Moves at the Margin: Selected Nonfiction

What Moves at the Margin: Selected Nonfiction

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The moving ground shouldn't trouble at night.
Neither should the necks of those betting against you.
They won't be heard.
Their rags will be the dirt of that same ground.

Find rest in knowing
The words of the heavens reach across the earth.
In every language issuing knowledge.

To tremble at the voice is clean.
Cleansing even the secret faults.

The request make their way into the room.
The banners wave before as petitions

Even in the courts, the words help....strength....
Mingle among the common pleas for grace....

Even for the length of days......

In the hollow place I found these words:
Let not the meat of my mouth be full of bile.
My dwellings, let them not be among the wickedly dark.

Where they take advantage of the ignorant--
Those full of earth's vomit--
Who are considered unseen.

The orphans mindlessly stumbling,
As the heat bares down on their backs.
Purge them, let them stand upright.

Higgaion

My whole heart I promised to another
An emptied besieged city can not end
Seeking, knowing I'm not forsaken

My groanings, he has not forgotten
Standing at the mouth of death
As the sun, I will rise in safety

Waiting to be laid down

The truth lands with a sting. It's hard to admit when you have been caught red handed and don't have anything in your hands. The proof lying on the inside. And only you know how far it's cutting. The design is to show how ridiculous you appear before others find you with your shirt on inside out. The ramblings leaving your mouth continue to loop back around to the beginning of your conversation. You realize no one is listening to you. It's a good thing this time because if they would have paid close attention they would have all the proof they need. The proof of who you secretly are and the written conversations you have with yourself. No one thinks to look in the boxes down in the basement. The ones you have marked personal and have promised to sort through by the end of the summer. In the meantime, you must find a way to turn your mind around. To bring it back to the place where you at least know what you will say next.

Psalms 2--my understanding

There was a roaring among the people.
Their minds full of rage.
The rulers puzzled themselves at the mystery.
They must disband the union.

The heavens hold the power.
Man--no match for its fury.
He anointed his king.
Man the jewelry of his crown.

Victorious in the battle.
Knees bowing--lips worshipping.
Wise is the man who watches for him.

Selah

Mercy-----forever
Glory------forever
Kingdom---forever
Reign------forever

The sun was battling to hold its position tonight. It didn't want to succumb to a quarter moon or even to lighting streaks. Still the lighting bugs skipped in the air. They know they hold light underneath their wings. They want us to be envious of them. It isn't enough that they can fly.

The moon stood over the house near the end of the street. The image as if it was staged. The flowers in the yard props for a Hollywood production. I passed by to listen for the truth. I wasn't willing to fall for the Hallmark view. Maybe because my lawn too is dressed and the draperies match the paint.

I've stopped wondering about the other side. Stopped pretending I didn't care if I ever tasted pomegranates. I'm taking a que from my friends and using the light underneath my wings.

The time doesn't seem like the ordinary passing of days. When the sun looks so familiar you don't pay any attention to it until it has set and you realize you have laundry to bring in. No, the time feels like you should move. Move in the direction fear has kept hidden from you. But you know it. You see it in your dreams. See it dancing in your shadow. The smile on your face unrecognizable. Your skin glowing at the touch of your hands. They too look as if they belong to someone else. Your feet want to move. They itch underneath from the rush of new blood. A decision obviously must be made. If not, you might as well turn back until your mind catches up.

Uncertainty, an offspring of fear, paralyzes. Leaving the lame lying beside the fountain. There's a stirring in the water. The feet want to wade in while the mind continues to wait.

She looked crazy. The lady sitting next to me. She wrote down random, meaningless, isolated thoughts...."wine good for the belly"...

Whatever happened to her turned her world upside down. Made her believe there was no longer a reason to understand the elements surrounding her. Her feet went in opposite direction of each other. Her face showed remnants of a once beautiful creature.

I looked again. I took hold of myself. I took hold of my mind. I have felt it slipping before. This time I tied a knot at the end.

ground parched and thirsty

no sign of relief in the clouds

the sun ruling the sky

breathing on the earth

the earth surely its enemy

the sting of its rays

biting any brave enough

to move before it

in the middle standing

a well flowing with water

it flows deep springing up

refreshing against the heat

We cover up what we don't want seen

Disguise what we allow to be seen

And lie about what is seen

Same words

How many ways can I write the same story?
How many ways can I say the same thing?
I don't know.
I guess until I have understanding.
I guess until the feelings leave the words.

Shanties, nothing but shamed faced houses standing in a row leaning in the sun. The roots don't seem deep enough for them to remain after a storm blows through. Mans mortal attempt at creation. Man troubled on the inside because the tools to speak existence doesn't lie in his tongue. He settles instead for trying to place woman back under his wing. And after she discovers his plot he tries to win her back with a fish sandwich. They dance around the pear tree--everything has a center to it. A woman learns how to make her face laugh to take the bloom off things and to hide her thoughts. To keep them from being tangible, to speak as if she had a switch in her hand.

You can spend years asking some questions and only years will bring the answers. Is there anything as consistent as the sun? Can loneliness be erased with the sunset? Sometimes these questions seem destructive and moldy. But if the answers were found--we wouldn't be lonely anymore.

I would wait at the edge of the earth if love could be found there. Since there are no directions to its origin I'll wait until it turns the corner. Many moons have been up and down since my search began. The darkness of the night still didn't bring any new revelations maybe they'll come with the morning.

I ponder this longing in my mind where questions float around thought after thought on every sight and sound. Then there are those too deep to be accompanied by words and underneath them feelings numb yet to be defined.

Still there are parts that search for answers. Parts that stand by the gate expecting a miracle. Hoping the tears shed fall on compassionate ground. Hoping that the old world will leave in the evening to make room for the new one fresh on the morning sun. In my mind I can see it forming seemingly out of gray colored clay. But words haven't managed to bring me love.

Sometimes at dawn the world looks as if the sun has stabbed the sky. But it looks alive. I would turn myself wrong-side out to feel its color. The feeling of newness. The feeling that comes with the world changing. Were the sun escapes as vividly as it arrived. A prelude to an emerging smoke colored night sky.

Audubon Red Bird

There's something connecting us to the heavens. Sometimes we have to be reminded. Eternity seems a long way off. Some prophets say around the next turn. I don't know whether they even know if that's the truth. I do know signs come.

We need signs for direction. We need them when the air is cold and coarse, when words don't match the heart, when the pavement is hot underneath our feet, when we hunger on the inside with no way of being made full.

There's a completeness that comes from bathing in the Blood. A quickening unlike the first. One that makes you feel existence and safe in its emptiness. One that makes you look for the Red Bird in the trees--reminding you of His refuge.

When you want your dreams to be your reality you begin to act accordingly. Time seems to be the enemy, but even when the sun is gone it still leaves its footprints streaking the blue sky.

No time anymore for sitting on porches feeling the evening breeze. It's time for action. When you realize the sun's almost gone and no one has really been standing in your way, time to realize you're human and full of power.

You look in the mirror to see if the buttocks are still firm enough to catch a mans eye and make him momentarily forget he belongs to someone else. A walk that he'll try to hold in his mind long after it's lost from his eyes. Some say that's vain. People who believe in God shouldn't indulge in such foolishness. It makes you wonder do they praise the Lord when they go to bed and turn off the lights. You leave the gossip to your friends. Of course, you have put the story you want told in their mouths.

Even after years of praying self revelation still hasn't come. You search the trees and the leaves that look like they have seen every season and hold both joy and pain. You look towards the sky even when it's freshly covered in blackness. Dressed by a quilt of stars it begs you to gaze upon it and ponder over its mystery. So close you can reach and pull one down and wear it as jewelry, but so far away you can't comprehend its scale. When the morning light chases them away they'll be momentarily forgotten until played again like a sweet song.

Nature, kin to the flesh, pants in the breeze, the sun holding gold, trees in bloom causes you to search out the world made for you. And until you find it the tears stand in your eyes begging for their own ground to fall on. Until then you feel like trees without roots with limbs that hang down scratching your knees.

These of course are things you want to preach, but there's no pulpit for you to give your sermon. People don't want to be reminded that they are only pretending to be alive. Whenever they are reminded the mind conjures up the feelings once covered in the hollow of their hearts.

Even if they won't listen, the memories play back in the cool of the evening. Mostly the suffering during the winters when there was no sign of spring. Trying to shield yourself from the coldness in the face of the premonitions won't work. They come back again and again sounding the alarm of reality.

Looking for Grace

When grace stands underneath the tree and mercy falls like the morning dew you know you're where you should be. Standing in the light of the morning, when darkness consumes every place you've stepped before, you suddenly realize the air shouldn't be taken for granted. While everything else seems as stable as water, there is an assurance within the soul. The intellect and the intangible reasoning wrestle from time to time. There's no evidence, but it is present--just like the wind.

The Red Bird

Older black women looked for signs. The tales they passed on didn't necessarily have any reason to them but they held to be told over and over. These tales painted like wings, made me feel apart of these mysterious women. The strength of their stories, the way they smiled--always, the way dinner still made it on the table, the way they still praised their God liberated me--like the red bird in my tree.

You can't fool what's on the inside with camouflage. The truth lying within searches for an egress. There's a small hole in the partition. It looks like a rat chewed its way out or in-- depending on your perspective. You would need to examine it closer to see if it's large enough to squeeze through. Especially if you were in a hurry or needed to carry a few things.

Whichever the case the tears are held up tired of being wasted. Tired of being used as the only means of relief. When they fall again they want the cause to be worthy of wailing. Worthy of the salt spilling down the cheeks. Until then save them, but hold the heart, rub it, it's full of hurt. And don't forget to breathe with each tightening pull.

I don't want to be a foolish woman.

When I grow old,

I want my hair to be full of wisdom;

the fruit of my years,

the jewelry of my tears,

my crown and my glory.

Sunday Morning

When I was a little girl, I went to church to be close to my mother. Being one out of six children it was my time to have her to myself. When I married and moved away, I went so I wouldn't hear her complain. When I came into understanding, I went because I had to sing, teach, preach and pray. When I became a person I guess worthy of notation, I went so Brother and Sister So And So wouldn't have anything to say.

But not today. David said, "I was glad when they said unto me, let us go into the house of the Lord." Today, I'm going because I want to worship Him. I'm going because I love Him. I'm going because He's God. I'm going because it's Sunday morning.

Flower Garden

I want to reside there. The mailbox bearing my name. The tree blowing in the wind planted by my hand. The spray of the willow blessing the grass. The wisteria climbing the fence. The scent of summer re-birthed after winter's brute. Left standing ready to receive the butterflies. Corners ready to be dressed by hydrangeas. The night sky illuminated by lightening bugs in June. The stones protecting the skirt of the garden--watching the gate. All prepared for the red bird to grace with her appearance. To descend upon the trumpet vine.

Affirmations

I don't why God loves me
But I know He does

Even when I'm unfaithful
He's true and faithful

He's the keeper of my soul
The lifter up of my bowed down head

High School

Hiding behind the house
Hiding in the closet
Hiding in the bathroom

It was dark behind the house
It was hot in the closet
It was lonely in the bathroom

Fear was behind the house
Fear was in the closet
Fear was in the bathroom

She hid until those places could hide her no more