Raped

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

word orgies
leave us naked
empty days and nights

your feasting strips humility
scraps of audacity linger-longer

recognize Christ?

Standing outside, admiring Joan Miro’s outdoor sculpture…


Miro’s Chicago

we were invited into The Chicago Temple by a passerby. It was absolutely beautiful inside. Ornate wood and stained glass warmed the interior and our noses.

Do i dare

emerge from -shadows,

drink deep

from the well?

Wind clappin’

slappin’ my face

You offer -me

am i real?

a figment

of our imagination?

Wind clappin’

slappin’ my face

Drink deep -crimson

less the world

worn and heavy

rape your soul.

Wind clappin’

slappin’ my face

Save yourself.

When life takes over

Sure, I would love to dream
all day and whittle time –away
then, life takes over
and I left spinning to take cover.

When I was young
I dreamed of spending time
in a one room beach house
filled with only memories.

Now I live in a mansion
filled with torture of mind
and the walls speak
hold me prisoner for the rest of time.

(Authors note: My husband thinks my poem is too dark so i let him make his revisions as seen below.  My poem is a metaphor of the mind. Can’t speak to his.)

Sure, I would love to dream
all day and whittle time –away
then, life takes over
and I left spinning to take cover.

When I was young
I dreamed of spending time
in a one room beach house
filled with only memories.

Now I live in a mansion
and as life’s task take over
I cannot find time to play
with my treasures.

Hallelujah

 

It leaves something behind, ripping apart seams and all life is poured out.
GOD saw man was alone, and from his side He took her apart.
Walking the garden, the serpent snatched, drove her to walk away.
With tepid tears you drove yourself insane, excuses in vain.
She hid in shame, and you the same, you let your woman down.
Sacrifice. You know the game all too well.
Weep those tears. She deserves to know you love her.
Never let her go. Show your heart.
Give a little piece of you.
Your life.

In response to Jersey Dreaming

uncovering

A favorite past time is beach combing for sea glass and perfect pebbles. This concrete beam caught my eye. Probably because of my faith, I saw a cross.

My cross
buried in pain
denying me the focus
harboring confusion
blinding my vision.

Washed ashore

It is grace that lets me see again despite the occasional tear. It is the monotonous chore of examining each moment of my life, throwing the defective stones to the “sea” for refinement and forgiveness. These same stones will was ashore  and another person’s worries will be released and soon the worry will vanish. The stone will have been weathered gone.

stone
in a pile of stones
thrown to an inland sea
left alone.

—————

a pocket
of stones
weighted
down
trousers belted on.