Brother Musicality

I.
Sitting in the Kroger parking lot,
I am staring at pink, blue & gold
butterflies decorating my green purse.

A song by Shakey Graves plays,
something to do with struggles.
For once, I don’t focus on the lyrics,
but take in melodies pelting from the speakers.

My skin is drenched in Georgia sweat. I continue listening to strums when he returns with blue & white Gatorade.

II.
We pull up to the spacious place
where I had breathed quiet air
the last two months.

He sets me on a fold out chair
atop the truck bed. The tension
in my legs raises my need to ask God: why?

I am asked how old I am. I can’t answer, keeping my gaze ahead.
Heights, even three feet up, make this twenty four year old fear
I will fall victim to pavement gory.

III.
Solid ground finds me
on a red deck.
He is rapping about cleaning gutters
since ’94, not getting Pine Sol everywhere.

A backyard show for myself,
birds & any earshot neighbors.
Before he’s famous, cleaning slipshod gutters.

IV.
He sings every song his iPod plays.
KISS melting faces driving by a field,
to Shaggy serenading any angel driving through McDonalds.

V.
Struggles in life
help us to realize
we aren’t much different.

Whether we sing loud
or internally contemplate meanings,
we share in Love’s personal harmony.

Awakening Me, The Slipshod

I never feel good enough:
My words needing something special to attract sleeping eyelids.

All these guns for hands,
even my own, want to construct violence. Hatred sells a million
views, while Love is on the run

& go. You’re always running toward me, saying that old familiar rhyme from my childhood, with a twist:
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but holding onto You will never hurt me.

When I am in Your arms,
I am wrapped in a house of gold.
You take my contemplative nature-
my staring, silence, questioning completely. I can’t fake you out
when I shoot someone through thought.

Why are they doing that?
What for?
They shouldn’t.
Look at me, I’m gossiping
in my head.

Out loud is throwing stones
I profusely apologize throwing.
It’s spitting on You,
begging, Friend, please forgive me.
But the saliva has taken to the skin.

I’m the semi-automatic sinner
You let pull Your trigger to these crimes I wouldn’t take credit for.

My implicit demand for proof
someone means when they say,
I will die for you.

Author’s Note: This was inspired by a conversation with Justina, about how we all feel as artists. Whether it be a writer, painter, poet, etc. I also used Twenty One Pilots song titles throughout the whole poem, which was a lot of fun. Enjoy! 🙂

With this, We part

This is my klatsch-
a gathering trees,
myself & You.

I am the weakest among us,
so You say without mistake:
Go first, My child.

I don’t understand praise.
I sing, Your name heavy
on my lips, but my heart
will not lift from this obstacle.

Other voices proceed advice.
They say, go right & left.
I forget Your presence hemmed before and behind, love songs
filling my worried head.

I am tired.

These trees stand erect,
branches covered green
in this dying August,
holding Your promise
silently up to the sky.

What is it?

You laugh loudly,
shaking the greenery to hilarity.
In agreement You say:

Joy trusting Me.

Yes, but they can’t see You.
They don’t have eyes as I do.

Silly girl, look at how I made them.
The trunk, sturdy, the branches
raised up & out. Know why?

Faith is what is unseen,
not what our eyes perceive.

I make Myself known
each silent groan,
waiting with barren arms,
face forwarding with compassion,
to once again woo my Beloved.

Rejectshun

I face the wall-
sturdy white space.
I want to cry: why
don’t you crumble?

Yes, I know you
have to keep me confined,
so I don’t wander too far
from home.

Home scares me.
I say I want a safe place
my tired mind can rest unashamed.

I run each time.
A friend’s smile.
Laugh.
Hand.
Encouraging word.

They depart.
I am alone,
crumbling with cookie
crumbs I am about to eat.

You don’t have to stare,
all knowing as you think you are.
Human companionship satisfies
a period of time.
Home isn’t a noun, but God, creator
of each person, place, thing I love.

I can’t say I love you very much,
showing how helpless I’ve been.
You’re the obstacle-rejection
I can’t move away from.

A clouded sky condensing
a storm I’ve relived each time
my skin absorbs dropping reign.

The rain is coming
regardless my discomfort
for dreams deferred
to remake my reaction-
unworthy every time
my Father chooses delay
His homiest embrace.

Beggar

Let me offer apology
if I can push the word
from the roof of my mouth-

sorry. I’m weak, needy.
I want someone to hold my body.
Let myself go limp into the flesh
of this truth: You are not just holy.
You are holy, holy, holy.

The murder of Your nailed body,
coming up to the right hand
of the Father, back down, proves so.
Fill this house with outstretched arms, so I may fall into eternal rest.

I’m a grief observed, heart cries
silently aching for Your smile
touching my bitter soul.

My hunter, please come
by my side. See me,
hidden amongst green shrubbery,
pricked by the arrows of self-hatred
guilt, and self-pity.

You are the Prince of Peace, I,
the idiot, awaiting for Your aroma
to overwhelm my wilting in this sweltering heat.

Past ghosts whisper:

why would anyone read
a single poem you write.
Apologize for finding yourself.
Oh, look at the time-taking days
this is wasting. Why even try
achieving your dreams?

I should be glad, rejoicing
these troubles will not last.
You are with me every stumble
of the climb in letting go.

Before I slip away, shamefully,
hear the call from my frail voice-
My Friend, show me thy
tenderest mercies.

Faithfully

I cannot taradiddle-
I ache to behold You,
mockery behind ear’s detection.

I watch a yellow bird flutter
above the tree’s casted shadow.
Quick, CIA executions as if it were
silently laughing: you’re momentary darkness. I can dart away.

You come so suddenly, exclaiming
love You’ve had before my mother named me youthful.

I forget I must grow older,
my soul beheld in my Father’s affection, wonder welcomed eternally.

Fatherless Widow

I have bugbear I will drop Your hand,
run headlong to arms of another lover.

Call them my eternal, my comfort.
Idolize each I love you as if it were the Gospel.

Sacrifice myself for their will.
Look them in the eye,
swear they were You.

You will stand,
my hand loosely
twined within Yours,
a nail pierced truth
leaving blessed lips.

They’ll leave you a widow.
Tear through gentlest heart
I have set to repair by bleeding through.
When you are empty, I come
forbearing the mess of you.

I know you, My little girl-
longing journey to company
where you are known.

Where roads have no end,
valleyed flowers leading you
stream side more than an hour or two.

Where I will hold you,
never tiring beauty
I made midst of April.

Where I will kiss
Spring air healing
upon your wrinkled brows.

I am jealous for you,
Baals cannot help to forsake you.
I have walled you in these wilderness

arms; to let you wander, let you fall
into tender honeysuckle I saved
hearing your return home.

Twined

I woke up this morning,
saw the stain on the pink sheets
and thought my heart must have bled.

I came out on the porch swing,
watching a situation unravel
tears I can’t say are lambent.

I keep blinking, staring, waiting,
my heart weighted down by thought
I have once again failed.

Condemnation I’ll give myself,
so if anyone else decides
throwing in their two cents,

I’ll already have worried myself enough
my ears won’t register them.

Jesus, how the wind moves
Your fragrance toward my pitying soul: You’re mine.
I’m holding out My hand.

See this wrist?
I bled your condemnation,
filled you with My love.

Place your palm in Mine.
My rod & staff forever
your guide.

Sunday II

i.
I come in from the heat
soaked to my bone.
Cool air greets me
closing the red door
behind me.

ii.
I sit at the foot of the couch,
resting my head on mother’s tired legs. I hear thump thump thump-
quiet heart breaths beneath breathing skin.

iii.
We are in the kitchen-
pecans, strawberries, lettuce,
sausage strewn about the counters,
the stove.

In the midst of reaching for a condiment in the refrigerator,
I ask for a hug without words,
but open arms embracing fact:
we are loved.

iv.
A handmade star shoots off the silver refrigerator, hitting the wooden floor.

I walk slowly, retrieving the room temperature point revealing my smiling face–elementary school years–directly in the center.

I struggle hanging this long ago gift
back in place. I don’t know her anymore, nor such happiness so easily seen in that carefree smile.

v.

Father comes through the white back door, angry. Why didn’t I answer?
A tear apology beckons
spilling I know won’t fix my unavailability when I was in demand.

This is how I know I’m not perfect in love-punishment stung a bee’s needling, drawing fear rather than honey.

vi.
Two people
teaching give
and take-
red and white,
with my blue eyes
the end of a freedom flag
no one is willing to slam shut
in defeat.

Sunday

There’s the familiar question:
You are fine if I tell you everything I’m learning?
A little girl speaking from a furrowed heart awaiting punishment.

It’s immediate to wear this mask,
frown lines heavy with this tension
I’m burdening someone.
Friends and my mother tell me infinite times:You are not burdening.
You are fine. I love you. I value you.

I crave look beyond my disadvantaged body with the step,
step, pause walk. The fisted right hand, unclenching when I’m alone.
A left foot stuck in the same direction, right always forward.

My left pulls me to the belief
I must never ask for help.
I can do life on my own.
I’ve seen since I was born.
Tired, weak souls carrying loads
meant muscle past our own.

When You said: Boast weakness. I will make your path straight, I feared my trust in You.
You’re the One I can lean my trembling fears, body, hearing promise unbroken: I will uphold you.

These rimple question marks will smooth out soon enough, My child.
Keep holding my hand, My blessing shall run through, overcoming you.