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.

Joy of Friendship-for Tanya

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

"font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#c0c0c0;">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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Move

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

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.