And perhaps reach out for Him

I asked my eyes if they'd take time
To rest on the sky today.
They complied, focusing on clouds
Almost too high to rain.

White, unblemished fingers,
Reached out from crumpled bodies
Gripped the sapphire ceiling.

Swaying ever-very-slightly,
Inviting shadows of platinum,
Ivory,
Light gray.

I thought to myself, "we're not so different..."
...Refuse release in our own way...

We grip the skies we paint ourselves,
As if Heaven means "more! tightly".

My own livid greens and angry reds
Exist unhinged,
Not lively.

These blues,
Light hues...
...This moment wherein I, again, choose...

Thanks be to He!
Another May-summer muse
Has cleaned my pride
In spite of me.

Acts 17:24-27

h@/^/D$

Help me not judge based on pretty, prettier
Taunt me with love rimming a lake of forgiveness
Dip me in Your honor, help me understand
I want to hold Your hand
I want to stand
Woman, Man
Hand in hand
“It’s not the hand that cuts, it’s the hatred deep inside”
All forever changed, silver steps for sand

Who art in heaven
Who hath made art
You gave me a brand new start
Help me not judge based on hungry, hungrier
Nudge me with grace brimming over another cracked cup
Drag me in Your peace
Please
Mercifully redeem
Interlace these raised, bruised hands

In Awe

I can feel plunged at the darkest of demons
Lose my gifted breath to tumultuous waves

I can stop going because I need water
Burn with martyrs
Drown a lonely drowning death

None can fathom, oh the glory
So I’ll praise, So I’ll praise

ben laden laid to rest?

I have the urge to celebrate
The passing of a fool
Who toppled towers
With his hate
Met ignorant in schools

Hours before
Amidst congregation
Singing with, as one
"Draw me gently to my knees and I am..."
Sweetly broken?
American token?
...As if this war is done...

My country is alive with wealth
Abounds in battle cries
Yet will the death
Of this louse
Unpurely prophesize?

Another April Sunday

I freed my vases for wilting dogwood
Stooping at the absence
Of smiling sunlit shelter

Replaced my shoes with ten toes and skin
Felt the grass talk underneath again

“So many things for granted!”
Too old to care that it was out loud
Too young for wind-song whistling, hours on end

Intimate means tickled by bee wings
Fragrant budding green things
Seeing the earth all dressed up
Scissors trimming wooden branches, as gentle as murder can be

I freed my eyes from waning darkness
Stared at Her Highness, the pastel queen
Replaced the cold with fulfilled promise
Nodded with the murmur
Of resurgent encouragement

Scars

We think we’re so smart and wise

We use the lines that real artists pen, those whose tongues have truly struggled on, singing without water, to somehow justify the twirling of our feet to ground

Our tongues have barely met the salty nub of life, rough with crystal, slicing sweet flesh raw

We don’t know about life outside of institution

Of a world without observation

Of a day without evaluation

We’ve yet to hold against our chest a real piece of life still warm from the oven

We are still spoon fed sponges

Connected by a single thread of truth so vivid in color

So strong in fiber

That it doesn’t matter how false our own artistry is

How unoriginal the burn scars

We’ve all got scars

And we’re all standing at the feet

Of the same certain scars

That save despite ourselves

We think we’re so smart and wise

in a winter kissed room, underneath a thick gray sweater.

This is my prayer for the day.

That amidst the craziness I would see the shiny things.

The things He gives, some of which I don't always understand.

It's true, look how they shine for you!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4dn-uOfHixk