And just like that I’d missed another day arriving far away from my knowing. I was so busy, doing nothing, so busy running into myself, turning around in dog tails, wagging in place. Panting, with my ear touching the cold floor, that held me down for a little while. Tile, black chalked lines, this is the memorial for leisure. Nowadays, when the sun is out and I’m shut in. When the wind desires to pick me up and take me for a spin. I won’t say no,
Dear kindness, I may see through a glass, in a half figurine. Tables turning. Blood rushing to the scene. Where have we laid our conversations? Where have we laid our un-prayed, prayers?
pixabay image
Over- yonder down by the riverside.
In the foggy-haze, taste a pinch of hope
see the sky, curl-over against the legs of the sun
bills unpaid, missed days, hair- all in blob, and done,
conversations now, are more than others got.
And God this is just a thought, if only, your hinder part
Lori and I are back! She’s my writing sister, from another mother. Sometimes I think, I’m the little sister while she has her noetic-pulse of poetry. She’s the great master mind when it comes to and arrangements’ of poetry. Might I add a powerhouse of words. https://praypower4today.wordpress.com/ (go over and see for ya-self!)
Having said that, I don’t take lightly the words, He’s Risen! On a day of all days, so many things have change. From churches, to supermarkets, to take out, to cooking at home, service in the living room. We still feel the wind, taste borrowed tears from sky-jars
I see prayers being answered. I see clouds gather like a furrowed brow. I see miracles so clear, light blue skies before the evening I see storms mounting, a menagerie of shades of gray I see nations closing the gap not out of fear but faith. I see faith fragile as an old bone. I see a faith that crosses religious lines Wind whipping, blowing change faster interconnections — preceding daybreak. than we ourselves can follow. Purified waters in hyssop, “washed whiter than snow” God spreads his hands and smiles. God with blue ink, he writes upon our red hearts Nothing is written in stone just so you know. God visits our tears He wipes them with holes in his hands He says to me — He says to all of man I bear it, my child, you’re not alone. And, in an instant, Easter morning.
Dear kindness, I feel there’s so much to say. It seems like the world has swallowed a nightmare pill. Somewhere between earth and mars -we are here. Are we ready to wake up?
I needed to run and write, like my life depends upon it. Only because I believe my life has wrapped itself around my faith.
These are the moments, we use our darkness to pursue light. Running to catch fire. Gently light the wings of the butterfly, running to carry tear drops in teacups. Running…
Moments of the darkness,
“We wear the mask” it shades our fears but not our eyes
unforgotten missions, weeping warriors,
our sighs’ our pleas, our hearts open, God, let it be…
“Nevertheless, not my will, but thine”
“surrendered battles, veils and temples, vinegar, and thorns
If ever there was such such a thing as Virtual Prayers -Hugs. This is the place to be! https://praypower4today.wordpress.com/ These ladies have become my prayer friends across the internet: There’s Sue giving out her wisdom, Auntie Ruth, delivering virtual booster shots of goodness, might I add, every now and then “a virtual punch in the arm.” Knocking out those bad vibes.
Then there’s Lori, she’s my writing sister, even though we’ve never physically met. I’ve been touched by her soul. Felt the warmth of her being, seen goodness flow from page to page. I’ve been brought back to life with her words. ( go on over – you won’t be disappointed ) Tell them, the kindness sister sent ya! https://praypower4today.wordpress.com/
Thanks Aunt Ruth for the 411 connect on this one. Lori and I share a love for poetry.
I think it’s only fitting for National Poetry Month.
Hope inside the soul has way of living in perilous times. Just when I think I’ve hit my lowest point. Or the bottom breaks from underneath me. There is hope stirring. Even on my street. Where the Bodega has closed, the young boy survived the latest shooting, at the church on 21 street. Recently he came to give his life back to God.
We taste hope just as the first lizard of the morning sticks out her tongue You’d not notice. It takes, as they say, an eye. to catch the beauty of the blue-winged dragonfly Still, spring cannot be contained; it bursts into bud: daffodils nodding, blonde and careless, trees shaking down three-doors down, in a small caddis, vagrant-vacant lot dripping with hunger petals, unseasonal flurries. New grass pokes shyly from the lawn, and smells, cut, just as it did last summer. Hope has no fairy tales with rewarding endings We are not the same, shaken as only the most microscopic menaces can make us. Yet. Hopes lives in the lives of shattered things Nothing can impede the rush to Easter. The stone rolls away, light as an egg. destined for rapture, of better things What lies inside is awaiting us.
poetry by Lori Strawn, (Lori’s words are Italic, mine are bold)
Against ghetto ‘s, sand-dunes,war zones and cliffs too
Robotic faces shhing feathered hands
still on he came,
Proudly, shaking the bear,
Resiliently, greeting lion cubs,
Flying parallel with each blustery storm.
Protected by the universe, Mr. Sea Gull.
Today I did not follow the prompt, I’ve gone my own way. I meet a beautiful friend today and thought I’d share my feelings. National Poetry is coming to a close.I felt much pressure writing. I’ve enjoyed each fresh rhythmic line. I have much to be thankful for. Writing is my water,my glass-slippers to the ball.My healing. Writing is my friend. All Rights Reserved 2015.
Please check out NaPoWriMo here for today’s prompt if you like:
In the words of my -Great Aunt Ella ( I attempt the Persona Poem)
This is a story often told as a child growing up- I never met my Great Aunt God rest her soul.
Chile-
“S-O-B treat me like that I’d kill-em all over again!
And If ya wanna go to hell-let’s travel!
He kept makin- that uh-noise
so I’se kept stitching me -dress.
I called the coroner office -as soon as he stopped.
Honey,
I’ve,never seen a man raise -his hand to a woman and live –
not while I’m good and
Able”!
Today, I challenge you to write a persona poem – a poem in the voice of someone else. Your persona could be a mythological or fictional character, a historical figure, or even an inanimate object. Need some examples? Check out this persona-poem-themed issue of Poemeleon from a few years back.
Krissy Mosley Ministries 