Sometimes my poetry
seems so base
it's a wonder I put it out there
like air
flecked with allergens
to sicken those who breathe it.
It's not the elevated voice
I thought "poets" used
(who keep me writing)--
but it's dirt, debris,
the wreckage of
weak living--
mess-ups, mishaps--
instead.
It's words out-of-place
stuck here--
together--
where they grope--
grasp--
at making sense
and making amends
for me
but are honest enough
to admit they're just
a scuff on the floor.
dedicated to M
Thanks, chica.
10/10/06
10/9/06
reality check
This morning I sat in my chair and prayed. Enough of stale words, I thought. I need to get out of this funk.
"Lord, increase my faith," I said. I hadn't prayed that well-worn line in awhile. I thought of all the bad things that happen to people -- faith-increasers. And from somewhere in the depths of me, I heard the words "but don't take the life of my son."
I shut my mouth and didn't let them come out. My son? Less than three weeks from his womb-to-world journey, do I think he's my son?
The Lord gives... takes.... Blessed....
"I'm sorry, Lord. He's Yours. Before You even give him to me, he's Yours. And after You do -- if You do -- he's still Yours. Every breath he takes of this earth-air is a breath enabled by You and not by me."
Increase my faith.
And now, I sing to myself Keith Green's song:
"I pledge my son to Heaven for the gospel,
though he's kicked and beaten, ridiculed and scorned..."
"Lord, increase my faith," I said. I hadn't prayed that well-worn line in awhile. I thought of all the bad things that happen to people -- faith-increasers. And from somewhere in the depths of me, I heard the words "but don't take the life of my son."
I shut my mouth and didn't let them come out. My son? Less than three weeks from his womb-to-world journey, do I think he's my son?
The Lord gives... takes.... Blessed....
"I'm sorry, Lord. He's Yours. Before You even give him to me, he's Yours. And after You do -- if You do -- he's still Yours. Every breath he takes of this earth-air is a breath enabled by You and not by me."
Increase my faith.
And now, I sing to myself Keith Green's song:
"I pledge my son to Heaven for the gospel,
though he's kicked and beaten, ridiculed and scorned..."
10/8/06
bathsheba
I disrobe myself -- paste it out there for all to see. And you see; you take it all in like famished children. A few of you smile, or nod; you acknowledge me.
The others stand and stare behind sheets of one-way glass. I know you're there. My sensors are up; you leave your evidence -- food wrappers and footprints.
My food! My soil! But I can't tell who, or why. I only know when, and I know how many. Sometimes the footprints are few. And they match the soles of the shoes of those I love. Other times, the footprints are that of an army -- uniform, cold, silent. I disrobed before an army.
And now I disrobe again...
The others stand and stare behind sheets of one-way glass. I know you're there. My sensors are up; you leave your evidence -- food wrappers and footprints.
My food! My soil! But I can't tell who, or why. I only know when, and I know how many. Sometimes the footprints are few. And they match the soles of the shoes of those I love. Other times, the footprints are that of an army -- uniform, cold, silent. I disrobed before an army.
And now I disrobe again...
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