Manger Straw

Some days
mom sang me lullabies
and i held my breathe
along with her
join the symphony
of dazzling lights
and ephiphany
“I seen Jesus”.

Her head would slump
and her mouth frown
in exclamation marks
“child i have no idea what you talking about.”

I would
stroke mom’s downy feathers
under her belly
where all such pain lands
bandage the broken wing
and hold my arms up high
“fly Jesus! fly!”

Explain to myself
there is no pillow to lay
my momma’s head
“child she has no idea what you talk about.”

dreams so wrong

never thought
of wishes
bad memories is all

when
words
carved of wood
petrified stone
perched
on oak branches
stop
the dangling swing

push
her legs, pumping
of sprouted wing
the sun made
all the difference
in a light rest
lying in a dark tomb
of books

she turned the pages
gently, torn
worn of ages ago

remembering
the sewn sleeve
of a dress
was it hot?
cold?
most mothers know
the weatherman’s secret
so predictable
to forecast the future

her plaster-of-paris
dreams
some how, gone wrong

storm to safety

winding up
to blow over
everyone
and everything
that stands in my way…
i sense no path -forward
or backward
isolated in a forest
with overgrown fears
closing in
surrounding my feet

i change my mind -escape
and morph into another
hiding once more
an invisible ticket
expired and worn
barely readable
the conductor puts on his glasses
and hangs his head…
the fog thickens

expands

and -poof
persistence
fades as quickly
as memory
is no path
to walk
or hold hands.

(tough morning… so i wrote in hopes peace could ensue… 9/19/2018)

this is my opinion…

Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.

I read this article…

Is this our world?

Here is my heart reaction, in words.

This is equally tragic as 9/11. The voices of those dead in Chicago cry out for us to take action. How do we react? We dissect each tragedy and look for blame. Is there blame? On who or what? Scholars divide the problem into money, race and gender. But i say the problem is time, compassion and heart. We are too busy to listen to the kids in first grade who open up and tell about their life.

Once trust is earned, the problems surface. These children are calling out for help. 

The little child tells me he will never make his momma sad and be like his older brother. He wants to read and learn. But then he enters sixth grade and they bully him into submission. Take his backpack and books and call him shame. “Shame on you for listening to whitey! They hate you. Dont you remember?” Those words echo in his head and dig into his heart. I scream in a whisper. “I care. I am white. So what? Can you not see my heart. It beats for every death you celebrate. Every life you snuff out.”

To the kids i knew at School on Wheels. I hope someday we hug in heaven. ❤️❤️❤️ Or even better we run into each other some where in this world!

dreamworld as real as this ever was

Well, woke with a fright
fell asleep by night
music playing in my ear
led to dreams near to here

and they folded the blanket
yellow and fuzzy
criss-crossed the land
and banned me from crossing

thresholds are barred
in drowsy land
and the angels guard me
from ever talking

the residents shunned
my twirling gown
sent me to prison
with a gun -to my head

Well, woke with a fright
fell asleep by night
music playing in my ear
led to dreams near to here