I starch and iron out your robes–
keeping your perfection at a safe distance.
But, you close the gap between us,
removing royalty to wash the grime off my feet.
Posts Tagged: poetry
I AM Â is not plagued by an identity crisis.
i
wrestle with his character. And in the sweat of discovery find,
my own name more sweetly defined by the wildness of my
untamed God.
I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless;
That only men incredulous of despair,
Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air
Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness,
In souls as countries, lieth silent-bare
Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare
Of the absolute heavens. Deep-hearted man, express
Grief for thy dead in silence like to death—
Most like a monumental statue set
In everlasting watch and moveless woe
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet:
If it could weep, it could arise and go.
I didn’t press replay but, there you were
smirking in my dreams, and I search each one
hoping to find a clue.
I tremble at blank pages. Penning
next days crumbled outtakes until
there are no words left for today.So I
steep myself in tea
and toss words like an abstract artist
until the page is stained
with tea and ink blots resembling
hope and substance.
I am Juliet, romancing
depression like a star-crossed
lover, and drinking a poisoned vial of knowledge
to freeze the tic-toc of suffering. Graves and rosy
cheeked epitaphs serendade my hopes and dreams
with youthful ignorance. We elope to escape the tyranny of
commitment. Brow, not yet soiled by sweat, does not
have the strength to withstand suicide’s slander. So I lie, willingly,
in wait for my Romeo to rescue. And leave the priests to ask,
“Death, what are your intentions?”
Humanity keeps scratching graffiti identity
into wood and bathroom stalls . . .
Settling for surface tattoos,
when I engraved you in the palm of my hands.
(Isaiah 49:16)
When
I unlatch
the cage around
my heart,and pull out the throbbing
pain within, I am surprised to find a small
trembling bird, waiting for the
strength of release.
I comfort myself by wrapping up in the
truth of who you were, not in the grief
of who you thought you should be.
Jonathan age 3
My child.
Shake depression’s dust from
your travel beaten soul and bathe in
my pure love. Let me pour my healing fragrance
over your wounds and give you rest.
I plucked you from the orphanage
of death and clothed you in the rich threads
of royalty. Everything I have is yours– I withhold
nothing of myself from you.
I have worn your dust, and know your
sin beaten sorrow. I lift your downcast face, to see the
crowning glory of my new day
reflected in the creation of you.
National Suicide Hotline
If you or a loved one are in immediate danger, call the National Suicide Lifeline at 988 or go to the website at https://988lifeline.org/