Reflecting

 

Maybe it’s because I feel some kinda way –
yesterday sits on the edge of my mind,
like a clingy child on grandma’s full hip…
Her supple cheeks were soft to the touch.
Much of the time, I was lost in their silkiness.
I remember she smoothed on Olay with an
away and up motion. That was the key,
she told me… the key to maintaining. And,
though I hated being sick, I do often miss
the awakening sensation of her go-to Vicks.
No one else did, but she cared enough to
provide the right rub for whatever ailed me.
The vibrato in her song lends chills to my
memories, and her depth of soul must’ve
evolved throughout the centuries. There’s
no other explanation for her effect on life.
Life then… was sustaining, but never enough
to satisfy my imagination… so I dreamed often.
Dreams were my existence, and reality… just a
resistance to the world as it should be. All the
bitter circumstances never defined me: broken wills,
hustled bills, shattered hearts and scattered parts…
heavy chains, spiritual drains, twisted knives and
sold-out lives… scantly father, love imposters,
damaged siblings and no forgiving… evil games,
lacking shame, pimped-out children calling
mommy’s name and… tomorrow we’ll begin again.
Yeah, whatever.
God’s got me and He made me clever. Wherever
my flesh existed, my mind was above it. All I
ever did covet was acceptance… you know,
to be enough of the stuff that makes parents
want to hold you close, say you’re pretty, look
into your eyes and –for once– not lie, protect
your innocence, rein in the recklessness, perhaps
even pray for their children’s successes.
Yeah, well.
God’s got me and He made me from His heart.
At the start, I didn’t realize that wherever I am,
Love is too. In this truth, there’s nothing more,
below nor above which carries more weight.
I don’t hesitate to embrace the arms that
left me cold… to find beauty in the eyes that
couldn’t behold me with affection and verity.
Incredibly, I have room to accept those who’ve
never accepted me… then, now or ever,
because I’m clever and I know… it’s most
difficult to accept what one cannot understand.
I am not a man, but I can still be the bigger one.
I can rise much higher than a baby girl’s corruption,
stretch a lot further than a spirit’s deconstruction,
reach far deeper than a soul in isolation. Creation’s
center floods my veins, and I am infinitely more than
any context. Though seen in a reality quite vexed,
I am a dream – a damn good one… the kind that
trembles bones when it speaks to souls and
softens hearts with eternity’s love; that eases
wounds and lingers on the senses; and without
pretenses, dissipates the bitter circumstances
which should never define. Much of the time,
away and up is how I maintain divine. I am a
dream which sits on the edge of the mind, like a
love child clinging to mama’s full hip, making
all life carries just worthwhile enough to
dream a little longer.
Perhaps, I am a reflection of her…
or maybe, I’m just feeling some kinda way.

 

Revolution

revolution

 

Listen…
as the whispers take their rise
Boiling depths bide no more time
Hushed
has encountered its due demise
Leveled
now tilted towards rebellion’s side
Sensitivities melted
into a rigid mold –
wounds fortified by its defensive hold
Exhausted
by the pilgrimage of the soul; love
takes refuge ‘neath the armory’s fold
Arid
is the breadth behind swollen eyes, for
fiery veins have replaced their tides
Passions
extended across enemy lines –
no longer compromised by collateral lies
Depleted spirit
granted sabbatical leave, while
arm’s reach slips on a radical sleeve
Invaders flaunt their spoils, presuming reprieve,
but
turnabout’s the fate they’ll come to believe
Survival
transforms the roots of all fear, waking
dormant defenses as outcomes become clear
Dissent’s
marching orders ring the bell for all ears
Revolution
is not coming, it’s already here.

 

Image credit: uk.pinterest.com

Turbulence — The Seeker’s Dungeon

Broken wings… these silly things, letting air flow through where substance should fill the gaps. Perhaps, as with weaker souls, my brilliantly crested breast can indulge in lesser pleasures, still survive the dawn, and redeem my righteous standing… just maybe… if I lay down my armor gently. Yet, fragility is no less feeble when coated […]

via Turbulence — The Seeker’s Dungeon

Born in a barn…

Guess I should’ve been.
Doors sealed shut,
but my mind was always listening.
Constantly sharpened by the
blades flyin’ through the air.
Cloaked in silence, so the
spirit wouldn’t be too bare.
Nestled in the weeds for the
comforts of earth.
Soul unstable ‘til the
fruits were unearthed.
Stretched across folds…
different wools in my hat, but
none of them know
where the loyalty’s at.
Trapped by the holds of
varying planes, where
a bud of existence
was only known for its name.
Complexities of thought and heart
got saddled with silting.
Riders simply spat their parts
‘til blooms were left wilting.
Runaways were mental notes that
pressed against ceilings;
memories – these baggage totes
which weigh against healings.
And now…
the sheep has bore the lion,
warmed in her fleecing;
nursed the vital organs that will
keep freedoms breathing.
Secrets set to soundboards,
hushes hollered loud,
regulations unraveled…
empowering the endowed.
No more hidden colors in the
shadows of the clouds;
humble power roars against
the charges of the proud.
Every moment brighter
with the light breaking in.
Vision spreading wider
from the depths of within.
Disregarded nature can
no longer be muzzled.
Formidable birthright will
no longer get hustled.
Every truth in struggle learned,
liberated from unspoken,
readied for release because
the doors are now wide open.

Impressions

impressions-image

… that carve far deeper than the surface,
drowning all traces of purpose…
Breaths bleed blue ‘til
inflamed passions spill red hues.
Every right to choose, but
the beaten path becomes familiar.
Tragic howls resolve to whimpers
(and we’re all taught – it’s rude
to listen to whispers).
Bitten tongue composes lies.
Broken soul breaches eyes.
Heart struggles to chant its beat,
the sole echo of delayed defeat,
as will still trembles without its pride.
“Alive” comes in many forms:
dormant pulses, social norms,
raging fleshes, and spirit storms,
but, oh, the stench of dead
cuts to the core. The
Dark One’s whores delirious,
stomp their heels of hopelessness;
choke with grips of hatefulness; and
drop their prey into the mist… with
impressions chiseled beneath the breast.
But, the wash flows down deep
with the come up, and the
rise lets new life steep
in love’s cup.
Outlines of “was” take on
shades of rediscovery.
Sketchiness develops into
layers of vibrancy, ‘til
colors of depth reflect the light which
no impression can overcome…
sadly, a realization for only some.
The fisted spoils of the spirit undone
loom in the balance
far too often for far too long, waiting
for an utterance to be heard, praying
for transforming terms to free
the broken story… to see
the allegory… to be
the love that helps the etchings fade.