crayons and eye lashes

i
am a dreamer
and my wishes
and imagination
and desiress
are a culmination
of crayons and fireflies
my aspiration lies
amongst a field of whispers
where hopes are seeds
sewn by eyelashes.
The blinking creates waves against the breath of my vision
if you listen
the blinking sounds like
"shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh"

The dreams are secrets
fabled not to come true if spoken
hopin'
we blow our prayers into the wind
like eyelashes off finger tips
a dream is but a wish
the hope is but a prayer
and the whisper of the blinking is the sound of the vision being born.

The Mustard Seed

and love ...

like the shore line
looses it shape with time
as tide and tried and fight and fury and winds of unfathomable change
render strange
and eroding shapes
against what we make

of love.

like pagan heathens - seething in there own glory
erecting false idols in the wake of their own euphoria -
we call the golden calf "love"... and lay our souls at it's feet.
destine for defeat / and destruction
you can smell the sulfur comin' ...
because we have a tendency to place faith in the physical
and just because you make my body shake
or i come so hard i lose all my protein ... makin' my head ache
doesn't translate

to i love you.

but we long for our false gods because evidence doesn't require faith.
it's easy that way.
it's not hard to worship the sun when you bask in it's light
it isn't difficult to build upon lust when the evidence is in your thigh
like the building pressure of an
arthritic knuckle begging to be popped.
i stopped
looking at love thru lenses of false pretenses
i ceased
my belief in a love that doesn't allow me to breathe
because i have to believe
that a love that is healthy for me requires stamina
deep breathes for the long haul ...
and when i purse my lips taking shallow breathes
as i drown in the depth
of your ugliness

it's not because i don’t care enough to argue
it's because i love you enough to try and reach the surface
flailing harder in troubles waters
will cause death by drowning faster than just floating.
hoping
for something better and having faith in it aren't so far removed.
but i too ... am looking for evidence.
i wait patiently for confirmations
something to put faith in
because despite what i've said in past conversation
i want to believe.

i want to be
that parishioner struck by the holy spirit ... flailing in the isles
i want denial
replaced with speaking in tongues .. and the language love
would only be recognizable to your ears

our here
and now
is like encryptions … glyphs on
the walls of our daily actions
appearing to others as interpretive dances –
but we know
that taking the garbage without me askin’
means you love me more than your own comfort or time line.
And right now
I don’t need the golden calf of an anticipated thigh
As evidence that I love you.
I am pursing my lip and clenching my fist - riding the shore to something more
Than meets the eye.
With fettered faith – I am riding the tide.

soldier song

I set forth to write a song for you
Something that would see you through; keep faith afoot and perseverance in your lungs
…and when you’d exhale during the difficult part of your journey
Your labored breath would sound like hope
And song.


I dug deep … to the natural rhythm of my feet, and the sway in my hip
I looked for song in the nod of my head and the purse of my lips
Lyrics licked / like envelopes
I had hoped
To recount my own downward slopes and find the fuel
And tools
Necessary to compose your song …


but I’ve been singing too long.
hymnals … spirituals … and heart break anthems;
A triathlon of songs - pantin’
“I will survive” and “lord I’m coming ” –
the repetitive humming Creates a familiar buzz
no more noticeable than the whiiiiirrrrrrr of our computers. Whereas; once
A song
Could inspire nations to part seas, virgins to part knees, and the suffocated to breathe
But if you have been singing for survival every mile of the way
The melody starts to lose its taste


The over chewed cud – of we shall over come … begins to wear away at the tongue
I’ve sung
So many songs of survival
That my recant would nothing more than minimize your trial
My off key out of tune / is no redemption song for your doom
And soon
I started to feel that singing you lovely lullabies
Was a far cry / from what you needed.

Composer defeated …
I whispered “retreat” … and
somehow found no shame in it.


Once upon a time we were soldiers
And we were sold this
Idea that retreat was delayed defeat – and that rest was for the wicked – and a moment to cease…
And peace
Was only afforded to the weak.
Speak nothing wars and worlds of warriors and “rest” … in the same breath


Slave masters and over lords spun such webs … and we
We tricked our souls with songs of salvation
In order to fulfill unreal expectations.

There are no symphonies here.
No chorus that would trick the ear … or harmony to harp the heart.
Notes as sharp as spears, fallacy of falsetto
Tenor of thy tears, allow your vibrato to settle


And silence your song.
Retreat
and I will sing along in your silence to the chorus of only breathing the notes…

And somehow

The exhale will still

Sound like hope.