Bespoken

You have spoken 

“best beloved”

My soul’s desire,

My heart, my dove.

My Sequoia 

My deeply rooted one

A wise acre,

Acorn of the Father’s eye.

You are laughter on the waters 

You are riding on the wind 

You are incomparable and spotless

And you are My friend.

Underneath: a rambling

 Solstice still brings me your name,

A subjective conjunction 

A phrase replayed

With routine sophistication and lapsed subtleties.

Undone by a fragile sun 

Summed up by the endsum 

Dawn drawing harder than dogfight, faster than a pull-down.

No lack in this uncased rack 

it’s full price; what a prize 

favored by your laugh and sighs, 

shrugging off the lavish craving 

cold lips speaking لو سمحت

Only to be rescued by the welcome abyss.

Underneath the absence 

The cradled knowing

Synchronous with undoing.

Seasons End

The seasons that drag on,
And then suddenly end.
Later, carrying small regrets like seashells from the beach tucked in my pocket
But in hope, my way set

If I had stayed,
I would have needed a remake on my days,
The former ways
couldn't be sustained

The fit was
off
The mirror no longer reflecting what I want
What I think I need

Leaving security, trusting
Risking rejection, hoping
Disappointments in the wake, accepting
Taking on monotony, learning 

On a new path, no time for carrying burdens or even getting cash.                                                                 The missing weighs heavy.                                            
In this season of waiting
I long for another awakening.

Love Songs

Girl, I'm gonna write you a love song
Spurred on; poetry brimming after months of sinning
And girl, you can live and breathe
and it's okay.
Heart, you are beautiful
and worthy
and true
And I'm glad I'm with you.
In fact, the truth is,
there's no place I'd rather be.
Only you can be you,
and that irrevocable delight
that is rejoiced over, sung over, danced over,
and saved.
Yella! That's the truth.

 

Four and Awakening

Freeze tag
No replays
Keeping truth at bay.

This is a love song, I guess, yes,
Though at first fawn I thought "love bears all things" meant something
Different.

That hook that sends me on flight as a savior into situations
Where I am again a victim
I need to validate this pain and name the stain; 

Release the pattern, the familiar [familial] role play
The fatigue of doning combat fatigues
Of denying my body's dossier.

Owning a trauma response, a conditioning
Noticing and becoming present;
Awakening.

Burnout: but don’t forget the stars

When I start to

Fall apart:

Disintegration

The loss of integrity

Windstrewn

The gradients in and out 

of tune 

Fearfully, fitfully 

It’s not elegant like the movies

Yes it’s more a like 

A swollen red eyed heap of sobs

Every choice a wake

A break a

Stake

A chagrin inside my chest

A shudder

Stunted despair

Will it grow or blow out the flame?

When I feel

the burnout on the inside

a fractured, unintelligible 

Cataract of ashes and 

Dust 

But don’t forget the stars

That flame with a calling and a name

Called out 

Reframed

Those threads that were unraveling

Slowly stop

The shaking subsides

and I drop

Lower, deeper in my chest, decompress 

and find myself again 

More, together 

More like a light

And less like a shadow 

More like breath

And less like the wind 

Only love

When I fail myself,

I forgive myself 

No need to beat her up;

Harass, punish, condemn 

Lashing out.

Only love can retrieve 

What is lost, unspoken 

What has been so utterly broken

Only love can redeem.

Acting out

That fleck in the sky is a crane, or heron chasing the river’s course perhaps it’s northward here, along this curve, this bend not far from Franklin. To the south is the uncaptured rising moon. Also uncaptured is the stranger who held me in samba on the white sand, acting out my secret fantasy. Manifested into a self abandonment reality, complete with whiskey drunken from a stainless steel shot glass via a plastic flask. Again uncaptured is the burning red sunset that watched us like some benevolent fairy godfather. 

Well goodbye to the goodwill, 

good water

drain me away

preoccupied

places

progress

messes

making

Oh free me

believe me

this is a risk worth taking.

No erosion in heaven

Someday,

There will be sod laid over the mud.

Beauty, order, covering

Over the barren ground.

Prairies in heaven, savannas of lush and flourishing land, no more exposed soil, no more windswept earth, all the life lost, blown away.

No more deserts of parched ground where nothing is fruitful, only thorns and thistles. 

Someday, 

redemption.

(Circa 2014).

The Weight of Water

Three cranes glide over the river

the line of flags hang limp in the rain.

The weight of sodden

pageantry; was it calculated in the casting?

Can it be borne?

Does anyone imagine the 

weight of their life 

when it is soaked?

How heavy it is.

Every motion is laden with grief

accumulated weights.

The density of water is 0.99802 g/ml. 

What a pull when it saturates;

filling every space.

The next day the flags flutter northward,

the cranes roosting.

Empty hands of faith

“Prayer is an activity that must be central to our lives... in prayer we are holding our empty hands of faith to the God who is there and you can do far more abundantly than all we ask or imagine. -Francis Scaeffer 

Solaced before

I know this river, we've spoken before
Solaced by it's banks
Between highways and heartbreaks
Above a culvert, beside it's ever-changing shape
Years, months and days 

Always the same and always new
Greeted by a different hue;
June's deep blue
August's green algae bloom,
October's grays and January's white renewed

In the spring air, the Red Winged Blackbirds, Robins, and Jays sing
The crickets jump, the sun dapples the trees, glowing reeds
This embankment, shoreline curve, rip-rap and parallel eroding banks
The planes taking off,
life moving on

All the transition
the learning, the letting go 
We're told and sold beauty and money will bring happiness
(that ever elusive, fading moment)
A river quieting my soul,
that is my choice

 

Holding space: the art

Can I hold space for the prayers unanswered,
the not-yet, the pain, and the grief 

Can my words solidify
the rock I sit on- 

Made of atoms, moving undaunted leagues apart
as solid as it seems, what a feat of mind-blowing reality

Can I hold space for myself, to simply be?
With me, beside me, attuning, witnessing, accepting

What a posture; moving at love's pace
I am the place I've been waiting for, a space of stillness and grace.

How to move forward?

I have a lot of shoulds,

I have a ready pen, a brush, a word,

But to sit still, oh, that's a hard task, 

That's a big ask. 

When I have 1,000 birds to paint,

A world to write,

So much to do, to feel, to think.

Pausing is discouraged when you're on a moving on the walkway

Maybe I have to get off. 

Maybe it will take time. 

Maybe it will be worth it.

Maybe stopping is the way forward. 

 

God, I surrender

God, I surrender my black and white thinking,
Good guys and bad guys gaming,
Us and them theology blaming,
Believers and unbelievers shaming.

You are the judge
and get to say what's good
Your voice is love
You are all that is good.

My seat of judgement,
I surrender it to you,
Judge and King, merciful and true.
And tomorrow, I'll do it again, too. 

The way of self-love is a foreign language

When I judge, I go up and high above.

I look down on my selfish, frustrated self, jealous and keeled over in pain, so messy and honest and wrong. Discouraged, mosquito-bitten and panting in the heat. 

Instead of compassion, I feel disgust. "She's BAD." What a pitiful creature! So pathetic. Ha, I gorwl with contempt. 

It's easy, I learned it early. And it even feels so righteous and justified to criticize, it feels right, even while in that pattern I die again and again.

I gain power, I get to be the first one to criticize... then no one else's words and rejection can be as powerful.

I lose so much; this self-rejection that decays my soul, the deep shame that leads only to more pain, a purgatory of torment with little escape.

What a road system, leading to a tunnel with no light. Will I chose to keep entering, beating up myself? Or will I turn around and take flight? 

Learn a new language, sounds that will be foreign on my tongue, unpronounceable (at first) until those sounds assemble and create new meaning, new pathways, new patterns of feeling, new ways of dealing? 

Will I learn this way of self-love?

Debriefing Relationships

D e b r i e f i n g - being invited to process, understand, sort, and discover meaning. 

Taking time to feel and think through these questions is work. It takes energy to process. Yet the clarity and vulnerability you enter into will be worth it. Holding space for yourself and your thoughts and emotions is worth it. The story you tell yourself about this relationship matters, and it is crucial to weave together truth and compassion. May these questions bring new insight and clarity in your journey. 

G u i d a n c e 

-Don't rush. You can do this in bit size chunks.
-Do this in a safe space so you can freely express yourself through screams, sobs, and silence.
-Give permission. Speak out loud to your body: "body, I give you permission to release the emotions you've stored inside" This can help release the stored stress and tension in your muscles
-Feel your emotions in your body. Be aware.
-Respond with compassion. (Validate, acknowledge... "it makes so much sense I feel...")
-Speak the truth ("the truth is....I tried my best...I am worthy....I am loved...")
-Rest. (Seriously, try and give yourself permission to nap, go to bed early, and give yourself time).
-Repeat.

-This is not a one-size fits all instruction, it is a starting point for processing. Take it where you need to go.

-This is not a one-time exercise (check that box and I'm done, woo! I wish), and you don't have to put a timeline on when you're "over it." There are no right timelines. It will take the time it takes. (Yes, that can suck). 

-If you find yourself "shoulding"- judging, condemning, ridiculing, or criticizng, just pause. There is likely some shameful lie that is taking over. Return to breathing and seek out the truth- "what does unconditional love say to this?"

Q u e s t i o n s

What are 1-2 things I learned about myself through this relationship?

How was I invited to grow and change in this relationship?

What did I gain in this relationship? (i.e. new perspectives, appreciation, companionship.)

What did I give up in this relationship? (i.e. sacrifices, things minimized) 

What does the future look like- and what might God be saying about it?

Art Psalms

 Bisa Butler inspired

The Empty Cage

The future, will it be okay?

The bird

Will it escape to sing outside?

The bars and the tears

The lament and the fears

I do believe

She will break out 

Her song will rise

The Princess

She has a pillar inside her

A strength to hold her a loft

Across oceans, languages, cultures,

A rhythm that will sustain her 

Defiant and brave

The princess 

Does not fear 

the future, she rises 

She will make her own way.

Your body

This is us

your covering

We surround you 

This ordeal, rite of passage

This blood, like your mother

Like all women whose bodies are torn

Tears ripped away

Tearing away, the unclean 

Scarring away, the unseen 

Glory

The dignity

The glory of blackness encompassing 

No white gaze interpreting,

Interrupting 

Telling the story that needs to be told

The beauty, the boldness, the brilliance 

Sewn into fabrics, patterns of distinction.

Tell this, tell this story

Tell of the rising 

And One more 

Monet

300 water lilies

100 Londonscapes 

20 Haystacks

And thousands of palettes 

A carefully controlled image;

Marketing-impressionistic-white-male-privilege 

Exchanging Interchangeable women 

For an esteemed reputation; erudite, master 

Beauty undermined by a heart so callous

Lavender; roundabout grief

 

The Lavender buzzes and breathes its scent to the trees and passersby catch the breeze, sunrise glows worries flee

For this moment 'I can breathe', beauty frees

To pause, reflect, enjoy, and deflect the heavy stench of death

In my city, blood crying out from the ground louder than any sound

He was denied his breath and it feels ludicrous I can freely take in this scene

It's a roundabout grief, it catches up with you standing in a roundabout and choosing to remain affectable

To suffering; to sunlight and the beauty and life, entering the dance of lavender and bees pollinating

Entertaining the tension of pain and hope,

Mercy and justice,

Rest and action.

Lavender waits all winter, it's roots dormant, until the ground thaws and warmth renews and the purple florets burst forth, extending stalks and petals, alive and reaching.

Growth slow at first.

Squares of Compassion

A quilt made of days
With stitches of pain

Acknowledging the ways we've hid underneath,
Waiting, assuming, observing, and concluding

You just wanted love, I just wanted to please
And that's only different by a number of degrees

We picked out the fabrics, the perfect color scheme
Now let me ask you a question, or maybe two or three

Being curious without judging, affirming without coddling
Aware of my own triggers and need

This is the healing, it's mending the torn places
It's enfolding love, a quilt of comfort worth the wait

Another Friday

I wake;
I sleep.
I lament and rejoice.
I don't arrive.  

What should I do?
What am I called to?  

I write,
I pray.
I can show you the Scriptures
(In it my very life).

What can I do?
What am I called to do?

Bearing witness to the One who was tried
Sharing a cup with the thirsty.
This is a simple life;
To be loved.

What more can I do?
What more am I called to do?

To see
And to seek beauty;
The end of all things is at hand
Be sober and watch unto prayer.

What do we do?
What are we called to do?

We plan,
We login.
We lift our hands and our efforts end;
Baruch HaShem .ברוך השם

When I was praying

I had a vision of a young boy running, age 4 or 5, he was swinging his arms around, white skinned arms pumping, and he was smiling, dashing around that yard, chasing and playing 

then I saw another boy, similarly running, similar age but with brown skinned arms, jetting off here and there, parents calling in the background, siblings flying all around, and all the jumbled mess that makes a family.

And I thought

this vision could be the child who will become Derek Chauvin, that shining son, that running one, before every lie implanted, every falsehood redacted another’s humanity.

Here’s the boy who would become George Floyd, before every care he carried was laid on his shoulders, the yokes he bore: addiction, racism, trauma, rejection and on and on, here’s the laughing child of Texas soil playing in the sun. 

Here he is before, the hardening.

Here he is before, the breath-taking.

Here they are before they met and fate intertwined their lives with regret, bills and badges and boots on necks.

And I thought of two brothers, I don’t know their skin color but I’ve heard it’s olive brown, who were working outside a garden, one with sheep one with the ground. Until one in fury struck the other one down, mastered by hate and jealous rage until his brother’s blood cried out from the ground. 

I thought of a God who sees the laughing boys in childhood, knows the sensation of their fingers chasing the breeze, knows their fears, their fragility, who sees the brothers before sin came and crouched at the door,

Who sees with justice and mercy all the circumstances, the circuitous choices that avalanche into lives on trial, to tombstones marking their fallen bodies, to tears and blood and laughter barely echoing in a far off memory of running, feet pounding, joy surrounding their cries from running in the yard.....

I take comfort in the Eternal Presence, The God who sees it all and knows it all and loves, oh how He loves. 

Rhyme for a Friday

Hey Death where you been?

Whatchu been up to?

 You’re home late and I’m salty 

Oh you were busy, were you?

Taking Pa with his pants down 

You left him pinned between the toilet and the ground

And all his fam around 

But he didn’t make a sound 

Am I trippin? You just snuck in 

This is a bad play

A lame day

Reverse course,

Rewind to a new game with a different referee 

Whose gonna actually call it fairly

I want to erase the sounds of Ma crying out as the chasm opened all around her 

As the first born son swore and bit the cuticles of his ring finger 

Death you laid down your cards 

It made a helluva hand, the cackling laughter resounds as you smile boasting in your win 

Yeah that’s happened before on a Friday when the sky went dark and that curtain tore in two and He was heard to remark “it is finished” 

So this story?

Is not over 

There’s gonna be redemption 

Cause your a servant not The Master

Fuck You, Death 

And all your compatriots 

I hate you and your lot 

You know in the final reckoning you’re gonna loose your spot

No more wins, no more plays 

You’ll be mocked forever when the judge comes to stay 

And He will, cause that stones been rolled away, and it’s written, He’s soon on His way 

Holy Week Cries

Entering Holy Week and opening proceedings the day after we raised the palms and sang 'Hosanna'- Savior.

We see crocuses and tulip leafs, piles of wind blown leaves and sand. We meditate on the incomprehensible, God in flesh, dying. 

We remember the knee on his neck, him crying 'mama' and 'I can't breathe'.

We remember the nails driven through his flesh, him caring for his mother, him crying 'have you forsaken me' and 'forgive them, they know not what they do.' 

Cries heard around the world, the man on the ground of 38th and Chicago, the man on the tree.  

Cries echoing now, for justice.

Lines

Cross-hatched lines 

intersecting 

slanting lines 

collapsing 

diagonal lines 

reaching rivulets

anchored silhouettes 

these shadow lines of birch and balsam echo and undulate 

like the wind

like the waves on the lake, 

these lines 

Opening proceedings

Skin as dark as coal

As black as ash

Extinguished from burning

Skin as light as bone

As white as stone

A heart unfleshed, entombed

This constricting whiteness, the word we give that heavy power, laden with guilt and silence 

Such a subjective, particular species of evil 

White skin on trial; opening proceedings and throats constrict,

“I can’t breathe”

Can you?

At this rendering of justice 

Chosing out

Cradled in a nest, a force hiding beneath blankets
and guilt. 

Fragile, failing wing,
punishing myself with shame.

I was
echoing memories of

waterlilies
with need

but gradually came to own
my pain

shedding the blame
and offering you

your best,
to let you go. 

 

Two wells

Still,
I catch myself
Huddled over next to the stones, knees sore from long bending
Hands scuffed from reaching,
Reaching for the puddle at the bottom of the well.

It has always been empty;
And I have always been wanting.
From the salt-tinged memories of "sloppies" on his bald head
To the self-initiated Institute excursions, the breakfasts, trips and milestones
I have dug, picking up the phone and dialing,
desperately.

Still,
I hold myself
Grieving the empty yet comforted; there is a better well
There is refreshment, restoration, and replenishment
Instead of seeking I am sought out
And the draught satisfies.

It was created for me to drink from
A well of Living Water, never diminished
I was made to drink and now I do
Even when I forget the invitation ensues
Releasing the pain, receiving the peace,
Daughter, I am here for you.

 

In certain ways writing is a form of prayer

 “In certain ways writing is a form of prayer.” 

—Denise Levertov

March

Freeze thawing

Slow release belief

Hope seeds spring 

Write a caption...

To summarize lifting heaven 

Summoning all the dustmites, tobacco stains, and clods of blood

Things unmoved for two decades, 

Mind unrenewed and bereft of hope.

In advance, before you ever cursed

I freely gave a blessing.

Would you prefer

An equation of logic?

No: to the tangled web of memory, emotion, pain 

and love 

Holding everything together