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

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

Defining Myself II

They gave me a white girls name
To me it always sounded so plain
Nothing one would remember
When I sign it, I give it some flare
When I say it, I say it so one will remember

Defining Myself

They are building the new church next door. My friends and I watch while we make mud pies. We'll have to go inside soon as not to get too dark. I'm excited about the church. It's the first thing I've ever seen built from the ground up.

The walls hold everything from the smell of hymnals and perfume to the sounds of clapping hands and tambourines. The fat lady sure can sing! Oh, the hats and the pearls! The women with soft skin!

My family eventually moves. I'm much older now, but the church is still on the corner. In the kitchen making pies for Easter--they taste like my mothers--I call her for the holiday. All she can talk about is Jesus. We hang up. I finish my pie for after church tomorrow.

The Washing Out

All the pots are full. The Water came down thinking the ground was on fire. It fell with purpose. The earth responded releasing steam--and still smolders from last nights incident. Neighbors watch these scenes through the parted blinds. The ritual of the pots is one of their favorites. She pours the water over the porch. No one knows it's to wash away his scent.

The Sorting Out

The Water will wash away the stains
Its the sorting out that's difficult
Determining the truth from fiction
Drawing the dividing lines
Storing away the scenes

When the water is muddy
The guilt doesn't come clean

When the water is muddy
The truth lies at the bottom

When the water is muddy
The words sound thick

When the water is muddy
The relevant crosses the undetermined

Bathed in the light of promise
but at night comes the shadows,
noon the piercing darts--
on the dew of the morning
rest the Words of Life.

Pleading Insanity

The room was an escape from the world. One foot outside of the door and the weight returned. There on the door was her name. It seemed as if it belonged to someone she once knew. The nap was long and a relief from the spinning world.

Light of the Morning

With the morning comes lightness even when the weight is still present. A shifting in the mind has seemingly taken place. Over in the night when dreams come like visions. The clothes were unrecognizable and so was the dialogue.

Spam & Squid Sandwich

The unexpected came dressed in normal clothes. The shoes were a different story. The wine bottles were covered with dust and the bread was molded. The voices sounded as if the distance was far from the origin. Worn out and stressed the caravan undressed and stayed until the intentions were revealed. Alliances had been made and sealed with a blood oath.

The intent was to bring two lovers together. Those who were foolish enough to have believed there is such an entity. Those who measure their sanity on the freshness of a spam and squid sandwich.

Anxiety II

she's an infirmity
of the soul
she's silent
she's insecure
she's afraid
she's lonely
she's faithless
she's weak
she's old
she's anxious

When you're standing in line with a bottle of pop, the world seems like a different place. Your perspective has suddenly changed. The things that once seemed to matter or cause a rush to judgement and condemnation no longer weigh the same. The clerk, unconcerned with your need for assistance, contemplated suicide all night long and is looking for someone to convince her either way. You can sense these things. You find something to start a conversation, the weather, the prices, the President. Lastly, you tell her to have a nice day. Tonight she'll go home and live.

At the end of the day, when the lights are turned off, assessments are made. The receipts collected in the bottom of your bag don't seem to add up. You give up trying to reconcile the differences--until tomorrow. The morning sun will provide a different perspective. For now the moon must rock your mind to a place of ease. If not, the walls will warn you all night of the to do list posted on the refrigerator reminding you that you're out of cheese. The slippers on side of the bed can only give you an internal view. You must check the bottom of your boots to examine the gunk that has attached itself for the ride.

Taking the Side Exit

I want to move when every one else is standing still. To unlock locked doors and pull the tags off the pillows that say "DO NOT REMOVE TAG". Why??

There's a box people try to put you in from the time you stop taking your meals through a bottle until the time that method is necessary again. But I'm refusing! I imagine I'll be excommunicated and my front row seat on the pew bench will be revoked. But it's better than standing in the midst of the congregation screaming. I have considered that on occassion, but decided against it. To quietly go insane is better. You can still outwardly dress as if everything is normal while on the inside deliberation continues.

The rubble on the side of the road was stacked neatly in a pile. The pickings looked tempting, if you dare to be seen rummaging through your neighbors trash. It's funny what people disregard as meaningless artifacts. Photographs from family vacations, lamp shades, stained rugs and worn out lawn furniture are the usual findings. But sometimes you can find a four slice toaster or famous artwork mistaken as junk. A piece of art you can actually take to an expert and discover you have stumbled upon a lost treasure tossed away like memories from a photograph.

Anxiety

The waves wash away the shore.
Gnawing away at it, the ocean claims it as it's own.
The prints no longer immortalized in the earth.
Washed away as if they never were.
The scent of salted waters remain scattered in the wind.

He's my portion
No one else can fill
This place this hole

Where my tears don't cease
Where my heart is bruised

He's my portion
No one else can cover
This place this hole

Where the wind is cold
Where the cover is torn

He's my portion
No one else can hear
This place this hole

Where my echo is loud
Where my moans are unheard

He's my portion
No one else can see
This place this hole

Where the gauze is soaked
Where my wounds have stained

He's my portion
No one else knows
This place this hole

Where my secrets lie
Where I whisper prayers

He's my portion

Audacious Tendencies

Maybe we should hang the closed sign on the hinge. Flee the city as if it was a holiday. Or pretend we reside in one of those European villages where they consecrate tea time. Whichever we decide, one thing is for sure; the hour doesn't resemble the ordinary. The way it usually does, like something to be ignored, but rather an iridescent moment you want to inhale. As if its odor had healing powers, as if the sun could bathe the skin and prepare it for winter. There would be no need for a coat--only the armor of inward radiance.

II.

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.

III.

She decided to raise her voice. How else was she to get her hat and coat? She searched the pockets for gloves. The disguise was not perfect, but enough to allow her to immerse herself into the crowd. The many colors will dress the landscape around her. Earlier she had disrobed the tan one and left it draped over the chair.

IV.

Framed in another setting
Photos of life not breathing
Smiles as fictitious as the background

Screams within

Leap out of the expected pose
Stretch for the moving scenery
Fill the eyes with ease

Screams within

When?

When the Rain Stops

The moisture of rain doesn't distract us. Not even the coldness that grips our skin. Instead it's the puddles that form underneath our feet. They capture our reflection as if they were the lens of a camera. Only the picture is blurry and we didn't take time to pose. There's no celebration or grand gala that has us feeling festive. No masquerade ball that we have suited ourselves for--leaving us exposed. Our signatures don't match the thumb prints we leave on the wine glass. Our voice sounds muffled to those who speak to us after dusk. And when the rain has stopped, the murky print that we leave in the mud is only an ambiguous clue to our orchestrated conundrum.

Sealed Resin

The question usually arrives on schedule
questioning the meaning of fossils and
why they are immortalized in resin

Why there are people who live in forests
and why we unhappy with our own selves
try to inhibit their space as if they were not
already alive and perfectly capable of living

The questions that arrive at the dinner table
questioning the meaning of translated scrolls
why they are immortalized in resin

Why there are people who live in caves
and why we unhappy with our own selves
try to inhibit their space as if they were not
already alive and perfectly capable of living

The answers don’t usually arrive on schedule
answers to the meaning of life’s obscurities
they arrive as clues and must be immortalized--in resin

Another door opened one that was closed before. Its contents were previously under construction. Yellow tape had sealed the entry way. Now it's accepting visitors to re-enter and discover what it has to offer. The findings have promised to be all new inventions. The kind that allows you to see into the future without the aid of a medium. The bottled tears that were once placed on the shelf have now been outsourced. No longer needed for future examination or for microscopic evaluation. The sun light shines through the window, excavating each corner. The Eastern sun's early, the construction workers finished ahead of schedule.

Low Times

The full moon hung low last night
Low like it was heavy
Weighed down with woes
As if it had been struck
Pulled from the sky
Lassoed with a rope

Frozen Waters

Time stood still under the spell of the cold
Months will pass before the water will run free
The warmth in June will make the bitter sweet--I'll wait

Standing against the cold
Time did not come to stay
Sun and moon have played
Mornings hide secrets untold

The northern light's gray
A wooden fence can't hide
The stars on the other side
Where the nights jewels play

Standing up to the wind
Time has just begun
When the bird has sung
Of mornings with no end

Sleepless Night

The loads of life fought against rest.
They refused to recline under the cover of night.

But today--a new day, a new battle, a new genesis!

The lines fell inert on my ear
Their taste indistinguishable
New words appeared tangible
I'll inhale these instead

Hidden Gate

The ivy covers the pathway. It's opening just as obscure. The vigorous fight dually noted. There doesn't appear to be a victor. This way hasn't had much company, at least it doesn't appear. All who stopped by didn't sign the visitors log complete with time and date.

At the end of the road we expect more than a bowl of pistachios. Something more to stand in place of our suffering and travailing. Anything just short of a parade where people line up and habitually wave as you pass by is an insult. After all you did leave your guts splattered in a ditch along the way--without complaint. Images regurgitated from the floors of our bowel duct display like old home movies played on reels revisit hoping to find relief. The bitterness is more than we can handle, but to release them would cause us to declare ourselves whole. This would of course require further action on our part. To let go of the written form letters we submit as excuses as to why we didn't and can't bring ourselves to turn the corner. The side streets are alluring but the broadway is well routed.

Willow II

Draped in winters dressings
You still call to me
Let me lie down beneath you
Your body’s warmth is what I need
The white snow is pure
It’ll hide our lack of innocence
Cover us on a dark winter’s night

We Stood in the Cold

We stood in the cold waiting for the one who has indoctrinated us into this ideology of hope above fear. A preacher, messenger maybe even a prophet, who believes so deeply in what he speaks we believe it too and allow our doubts to shatter. One ordained by God and not just voted in by man. So we stood in the cold waiting on a dream to be fulfilled and America's new tomorrow to begin.

I still haven't fully processed the events that I witnessed first hand yesterday when I attended the Inauguration Ceremony of the 44th President of the United States and the first African-American in our country's history. Although I have written some about President Obama and how I feel, a poem hasn't come to me yet. I'm sure it will or at least I am expecting one to as soon as I digest within my soul what has taken place. For now, I'm full, I wept, I rejoiced as my President, our President took his oath and spoke so honestly to the nation. ........to be continued.

Forward Vernacular

Life's a bitch! Like a vindictive female ready to mangle any other woman who enters the room threatening her position in line. The lioness can smell the aroma of another mixed with the sweat of fear, she prances in ready to invade this domain and piss on her prey. This ability to extract from life what she wants is innate. A quality camouflaged by etiquette, but don't turn your back on her. Her words are as smooth as butter but there's war in her heart. A war waged to satisfy her bloody appetite. They stare one another down dancing their dance of contempt. They strike one another while their prey lies in wait. Standing there witnessing this display arouses him. He smiles as he knows he'll be satisfied with whomever is left standing. He waits for the victor to come and partake of the fleshy spoil.

Whispering Wind

We stand in the wind as if its bite has no effect. Daring it to knock us level to the ground.
We mock the naked trees and envy the tumbleweed. Still the vacated cave can't stop its whispers.

Flirting at the edge of the outer perimeter, I'm daring myself to step outside the boundaries drawn so long ago. Unsure of the texture of the soil, safety has always prevailed. Until the known became unknown and the unknown became intriguing. There is a season permitted for exploration and when the time passes the aperture is sealed. To have a break to expand again is a gift. Fear is persuasive but fresh air is satisfying.

Rain

Bare, left alone but
light graced me then
my strength covered
the souls now mine has
been stripped from within
and only the rain will
dress me again.

I became a woman before I finished being a girl.

Le Ritmo

The wind is moving in half time
the bass trembles under foot weighing down
keeping everything from floating away
to another place where one's name
isn't known by everyone that passes by
and collective whispers that invite one to listen
afterwards pretend that they didn't hear the unspoken
clefs to be forgotten until the evening news
when the songs of the day gather to be chanted
and then the notes sound repetitious.

Living Fossils

Questions don’t always follow with answers.
Dateless fossils with stories to tell.
Enquiries that even the best Scientist
have yet to excavate their reasoning.
In the beginning when the sun was closed
and before time was to begin again.

Searching for what was lost as if finding
it would bring some form of resolution.
A resolve to live as we breathe
to feel the ground absorb the rain
that produced the tender plant
that heals from his wounded side.

Darkness overshadowing brightness
too occupied with death to accept immortality.
He scavenges through alleys for prey
to inhale the winds of life.
For this reason we keep the light on to frighten
away the apparition hiding underneath the bed.

The morning when the mirror is no longer
gentle enough to disguise time we begin repenting.
Lamenting for the evils performed by the hands whose
lines now tell their own tales and record indiscretions.
Chronicles in journals kept in the attic underneath the
preserved flower unearthed from the garden.

Shortened Days

lost as if unseen
the finger of God
will give immortality
but an empty abyss
can't hold the days
for a day is as a thousand
even a thousand as a day
but the unlost blood
stains the tree

The cold rain sounds warm. The outdoor's calling above the loud silence on the other side of the frosted window. Tonight when the eyes recess the mind will search for someone to listen to it's pleas.

She swung from his lines like tree vines in a jungle . Consumed in his literary world, anxiously anticipating where his words would take her next. Once she entered she knew that there would be no exodus and she didn't look for any. She wanted to be lost with him. Stranded in a place where the only meat necessary came from within, where the dampness of their language satisfied the thirst and their meaning draped her bareness.

A Funny Looking Moon

The silver moon was suspended

in the night sky and rested

so close to the earth that

it stood outside of my door

it's shine illuminating far

above man's duplication and

the glory of creation a wonder

but the cold December air tepid

because this moon stayed until morning

guarding my frost covered garden.

Before I Die

I want to live like I'm running from yesterday but not worried about tomorrow. Live as if a rainbow shows up everyday before the stars come out to play. I want to love like my next breath is dependent upon his smile. The smile in his eyes that says he loves the same. A kind love gentle enough to hold and sweet enough to taste. To taste even when the air is bitter and the moon is hidden. I want to roam the earth looking for the lost treasures. Lost because their beauty has been overlooked. Not the obvious sunrise in the morning but when it goes to bed and the moon takes his turn over the Mediterranean Sea shining on the black waters. To pick the fruit off the trees and drink the water from the stream. To ride and feel the wind as the road of worries disappears in the distance while I ride over the horizon to touch the sun.

The Red Bird

Sometimes you look out of the window from habit and you don't expect to see any changes. Yes, the seasons change and the grass stops and the sun doesn't feel as close to the earth. This is when you have to look inside the closet for your costume. From time to time you have to disguise yourself in carefully tailored layers and shoes that make you feel taller. To be able to stand above all that has mounted up an attack against you. The needles are stinging but the outer shell has been trained not to show the holes.

The soul is hidden underneath the disguise. Although the emotions reside in the pockets they escape through the stitches, but years of self-restraint will hide them under her red beret. Refusing to allow herself to stand exposed to the elements she bleeds quietly into her slippers. Then the purpose for windows appears and rest on the bush.

Maybe we're not maneuvering down here by ourselves and just maybe there are assigned creatures that keep us from causing life to slip from our fingers. Sometimes it's too hot to hold and other times the frostbite is unbearable and we left home without our gloves in our coat pockets.

The days are lost worrying about the un-promised tomorrows. Time is the determining factor. One must admit they are never in control--the dial has the power. Once admittance then acceptance will soon follow. Conceding is not so terrible but throwing in the towel is inconceivable. And there are those who lie in wait for you to slip up and allow your guard to momentarily recess--then in for the kill! I've always prided myself on self restraint. If I was hungry I wouldn't tell you! I reserve my nakedness for the one who won't expose my dirty laundry out on the line for all to see. No time for cliche's now the work whistles blowing. Don't worry it'll sound again to let us know when it's quitting time.

Obstacles were meant to be gone around. David ran through a troop and leaped over a wall.

Hope hid as if it was never known
But the sun over powered
The weight of doubt

The box was wrapped in purple silk
The aroma invited a look inside
Once opened white petals
Enclosed by red velvet
No longer a rose
But still as sweet

The directions for the labyrinth is written in a foreign language. The passage reminds to look upwards towards the hill for help. The suns shining blinding and requiring inner strength to overcome.

The surroundings are all unfamiliar with no clarity in sight. Sometimes you reach for a friend--a bending ear, then you realize that it's time to rely on what has always worked before.

This road so obscure is one travelled solo. Survival builds something within for the journeys ahead. The raven came and fed the prophet. An ugly bird but it'll do.

Red Shoes

The holes on the soles hold the story
Of the miles traveled
Searching for a place to rest
Soiled with the cares of the past
Stained from bloody tears
The landscape changes
Everything else is the same

The red leaves look like balls of fire on the tips of trees. Even in death they are radiant, shining as if they stole the sun. They have come to their end and have decided to exit in full glory. They will hold on until a strong wind comes and force them to take their final bow. The curtain will close in order to change the scene, but will the memories hold? Will the mind be able to rewind back to the time when the air was warm and sweet and this foliage provided comfort? Will the mind remember the red bird when these tips are covered with snow? Or will the fallen leaves be reminiscent of un-swept tears?

Weeping cleanses the soul but pride won't permit them to fall. The soul needs a release from bottled up anguish. The dissatisfaction of not celebrating the freedom it once knew. It's now confounded by laws. Precepts that dictate what is considered deviant and what is permissible.

Some infirmities of the soul are self inflicted wounds, but nevertheless they are just as hard to heal. The inner desires are even harder to ignore. Their intensity increases daily. The tangible presence of the denied is nauseating. Understanding self discipline is acceptable but flaunting the object of obsession is all together different.

When fatigue wins acceptance of the inevitable is not far behind. One could fight but the defeat would be too embarassing and the rejection would take years to recover from.

The air is wet reminiscent of the days she spent in England. She remembers the world being covered in fog and the black dirt looked as if it was from another planet. The days were long and lonely in a place so unfamiliar and so distant from anything she had experienced before. The bungalow was sweet but life was bitter. A way of escape was a daily prayer.

The seer didn't tell of this time and space. Although he alluded to it in a coy sort of way as to give her time to agree to the circumstances before hand. Predestination she has always thought to be hard to comprehend. Acceptance takes time and an inner yielding will.

The sky is no different than the one she viewed from the bungalow's window. There is also a sudden urge to drive on the wrong side of the road. Somehow today it seems right.

Weather

The wind has changed direction. The sun no longer rises in the east.
Ordinary days cease to exist. When lemonade was sweet and there was always cake.
The old ladies smelled like powder and old men wore fedoras.
And the Christmas air was scented with oranges and peppermint.

Do l'il girls still play hopscotch and jacks?
Today I looked in the mirror and wondered where time had gone.
I hurried and put on my jacket so I wouldn't be late.

It's amazing how the heart can make room to love another and at the same time wants to be the only occupant of another. The mind rationalizes but the heart can't comprehend the ideology of the common. A complex entity, it only deals with the exuberant and the elaborate--anything short of that goes flat. Like the souffle that failed after much thoughtful preparation and somehow something came along and knocked the bottom out of your evenings plans. Their eye has caught another form to admire and the familiar smile is just that--too familiar.

The shallow pool of affections shouldn't be vigorously pursued; nevertheless, the act of rejection brings out primal instincts that have been embedded in man since they guarded the precious garden. The need to no longer loose territory automatically activates at the very thought of being erased out of the place where you first came alive.

Center of the creation
Origin of all nations
Girth as the earth
Long as the river Nile
Standing firmly like Baal
Commanding to be worshipped

a word for mom

peace is coming after while

thanks brittney

The moon was only half exposed tonight as if it was afraid to be naked. Adam hid from his creator, ashamed of how his body responded when the blinds were lifted from his eyes. Since then man has only allowed others to see what they are willing to be questioned about.

Vulnerability is not without cost. It's not easy to stand waiting to be embraced or pushed away. Unless you take a chance and see if there's some truth in the myth that the moon follows you around.

Something that makes you want to find a medium on Main Street. One living in some sort of shanty playing with marked cards and old tea leaves. Maybe she can tell you if you've made a dent in his gourd and will you ever taste the sweetness of his loin.

Maybe the moon and the witch are myths, but it doesn't matter to you as long as one of them helps him find his way into your bed. And unklike Adam you won't be ashamed.

Blown Glass

The fanned open colorful skirt tail inviting one in to see the swirling rainbow at the bottom of its bowl. Revealing the beauty of earth, the glory of woman.

the paper tells
what the tongue keeps

the ink spills the secrets
the fibers drink the life

words asleep until awakened
oh, the tales that they tell

A Word in the Wind

Silence is a sound louder than Thunder. It has a pulsating rhythm blocking out the Wind.

Fears have chased me into this cave. Afraid to come out, afraid to seek your face. Once the fires came down from heaven and consumed my sacrifice saturated with tears. Now my lips won't part to call your name.

The red bird stopped coming by to feed my soul. Have you left me? Turned your back in shame. Now I can't find your shadow to hide in. I'll lie by the cave's door and wait to hear a word.

Prince Charming is Not in the Building

Twenty years is a long time to be asleep and I'm not referring to Sleeping Beauty. The ignorantly induced slumber in which you hallucinate of halos hoovering over the tops of people heads. And when you finally wake up they have turned out to be horns.

Older women say, "girl your eyes are coming open". My question to them is, "why didn't you pry them open a long time ago?" There should be a new coalition started. A mission to warn all young women of the evils of believing hopelessly in love. The problem is, is it's a part of the American Dream. The man comes with the two point five children, the house with the flower garden and the two car garage.

Is it fantasy? I don't know. All I know is I missed the boat on the undying love. I missed the call when they called for those looking for a friend, companion and a lover. Seems to me I was in the wrong line.

I'm envious of it when I see it. I imagine it to feel like the sun on a spring morning. There are days that I wonder will it ever come to me. And there are days when I don't believe that it will and I'm tired of wishing.

Praying all of my days since I was old enough to understand the unction to knell. Yes, I still believe in the power of prayer. But I think now I'll change the words that I say. I'll stop looking at what is in my view. I'll just close my eyes and wait for the answer to come to my ear.

the tears waited until your shoulder was there to lean on--my friend.

Sour Apple Martini

The spirits felt good going down. Sweet rebellion!

Preying Words

Conversations throughout the day, sometimes meaningless, sometimes with intent. Intentions to use language to unravel someone like a ball of yarn. To undo the effects of previous words that planted seeds of resilience.

Jealousy or just plain hatred must be the catalyst for such actions. The serial need to destroy and cankerously dissolve another. Preying on the lame, searching them out, sniffing their blood drippings.

Maybe recognizing the scars that still won't heal, and the effects that show up in ignorance--the unlearned. The hue of the skin, the accent placed on words and geographic location are flags assigned to faces. The faces viewed as the sum of the whole and not just a part.
Faces that grimace when they are introduced to hatred. Faces that cover the offended heart. Yet, still serially pursued hunted down by the scent of fear.

Pride is a shield from the intellectually snobbish. From the ones that hide behind their minds. The minds that allowed them to escape the same pitiful hole that the ones they snoot their nose at are still in. They must reside there in order not to be reminded from whence they came.

The door is visible, not open--but no longer locked. Previously un-awaringly existing with a chest full of tomorrows waiting to be spent with a new name attached to another soul filled with new laughter.

The kind that makes the hollow full and the naked clothed. The kind hoped for when tears are locked up refusing to be released for fear a resolution would have to be made.

Or has the resolve already invisibly taken place and now just waits for the manifestation of the final scene?

The orange hazy glow of the sun like a ball bounced into its place descending as the faint moon is called in. It's waiting ready for duty across the sky. The time nestled in between, nameless--as if the earth again stood still.

Reality can be just one dream away or it could seem as though the date on the calendar never changes. Whichever the case you still secretly check the horoscope hoping for a sign. Some prophetic word from a far away galaxy speaking to you. If only you had faith enough to believe in the God sent prophet. One who hadn't sold out to notoriety and fortune. But one who traveled around like a salesman setting up tents like a circus.

The lady on the front row playing the timbrel has an unction to speak, but laws permit her from being able to. The music is loud but the message is clear. Hold it tight like the four leafed clover hunted for in the grass and folded prayfully placed in the book of Psalms on the nightstand.

time for CHANGE

the light's dim time to change the bulb!

Weighed Down

Scales not always kind. Weighing, measuring a woman. Measuring her by her curves that are sometimes in the wrong place. Measuring her against a standard set by God's first creation. Since then man has been flawed. The original can not be duplicated. The secret was lost in the garden. Nevertheless, I am weighed down looking for it.

Rivers of living water bottled.
The glass must be broken.
The odor of your anointing.

Word Games

Words used to subtly slander and critique. Weapons used by snobbish people thinking one too niggardly to know the difference.

Sincerity rides out on words and a sharpen tongue slices thinner than any two edged sword.

Words sounded from the pulpits of men, clothed in theological concepts cloaked underneath their garments, were once taken by me as unquestionable truths. Words sent by God through messengers hired to speak on His behalf. Did they retreat to the mountain like Moses? Were these words inscribed on Holy tables?

I'll seek for myself, truth, truth that will make me free. For words, whispers in my ear upon the clefted rock where He'll pass by me in His Glory.

The moss laced path stained with remnants of melancholy. Trees dressed in ivy line the way leaning each in their own direction. The seasons of time have battered their trunks, but the veins that run up to their spine extend deep.

Carved symbols of love tatooed in the Willow tree act as a memorial. For lovers that abided in this secret place in the shadow of these wings. Shielded from the Eastern sun and the from the Northern wind protected by the Universe.

The hands of the Universe are not always visible they disappear like leaves reappearing over night. Not the old ones that have fallen to the ground , blown away, but a new birth needing to be swaddled. Clothed in the linen threaded with gold.

Underneath the moss a hidden treasure comparable only to that Who was hung on a tree. It takes faith to hunt it down. To secure it in the bottles of the soul.

Cloudy Day

The clouds cover the sky to deny the fullness of light.
The wind habitually stirs the leaves on the tree in the window.
Today time seems unimportant, the clock's moving at an unnoticeable pace.
Inside turmoil is boiling, the tea kettle is about to blow.
Like the bell at the end of a working day.
Letting you know you have had enough.

Happy Birthday!!!

The sun anxiously appeared from his hiding place pulling back the blackened screen sprinkled in glitter to reveal freshly prepared manna.

Daddy

The shadows from the tree can't hide the tole of the years
Still his cataract eyes catches the brightness of the sun
The youth of a boy and the strength of a man

No longer measured by his strong hands and arms
That lifted me from off the ground
But rather numbered by his dignity

In the face of death
Lurking daily to descend
Like a black cloud hovering

His off balanced stand against the darkness
He weeps and cries for mercy
I stand watching him breathe

I rub his sore neck and shoulders
He smiles, his skin's soft, almost fragile
His hair fine like an infant

His voice no longer strong
His roaring laughter faint, but sweet
His steps no longer sound

Selfishly I want him to stay
Forever, never growing old
But he's tired

Tired of the machine
In place of his kidneys
Tired of his tattered body

The mind still works
His body won't obey
The agony of the mutiny

The shade can block the sun
But it can't block disease
That has come to seize him

Daily I must let him go
To the earth from which he came
To the God that gave him breath

Until then I'll sit and watch my daddy
Breathe his last days with dignity
Underneath the shade tree

My New Friend

When they brought her home, I hated her. I held the most prominent position in the Reed house. For years we fought for the attention. Sometimes the battles were physical. Today she's my friend, we have prayed, cried and laughed--we have fought for this friendship.

Happy Birthday to me!!

On the 5th I'll turn 38, time keeps on slipping, but I think I'll stop right here!

A Trip Home

The streets are not as wide or as long as they were before. Manicured lawns, painted houses and porches once filled with the laughter of playing children, all gone. Disappeared as if aliens had invaded and all the inhabitants had to flee to find refuge. Inhabited now by those who have changed the facade left by those living there day to day by faith. Faith that could be heard on every corner from the stands holding the singing birds and the pulpits that echoed. These creatures only take, no mind to recycle the knowledge left behind by those who left their mark through garden statues only now to be desecrated with the dung of pigeons. The Main street once dressed for the parades resemble a ghost town. Howling down the street faint voices of prosperity. Resurrection needed for a place, of a time and of a people crucified by poverty laid to rest in a tomb of rubble, waiting for an ascension.