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.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
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.
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.
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