The Giving is…

Heart embraces heart. Nature flirts with nurture. A bountiful boogie-woogie of gratitude’s fine attitude. The giving is the loving. Love soar your minotaur. Sparrow your sorrow. A no-late-fee glee with gratitude’s fine attitude. The giving is the being. Enlighten the frightened. Untrauma the drama. Such a Band-Aid, the mandate of gratitude’s fine attitude. The giving is the healing.

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Bright Burnt Offerings

Shades of bright burnt offerings spark the dark. The distant horizon line, an outpost of hope. Harbinger of a light allowing us another chance to become that which we seek. Our bodies rise from beds, minds still groggy from dreams. In these moments between darkness and dawn, there is a timelessness, a weightlessness allowing us to hover above our hearts. To revel in their rhythms; brave beat boulders hurled at Goliath death. Moments like these when it’s all so clear, when truth is scribed by light. Witness the bold dictations of an early morning sky edging towards sunrise.

Bright Burnt Offerings

Shades of bright burnt offerings spark the dark. The distant horizon line, an outpost of hope. Harbinger of a light allowing us another chance to become that which we seek. Our bodies rise from beds, minds still groggy from dreams. In these moments between darkness and dawn, there is a timelessness, a weightlessness allowing us to hover above our hearts. To revel in their beats, unstoppable rhythms never to be stilled by death. Moments like these when it’s all so clear, when truth is scribed by light. Witness the bold dictations of an early morning sky edging towards sunrise.

Children’s Body Outlines on Sidewalks

Instead of drawing hopscotch boxes and hearts, children are using chalk to trace their body outlines on sidewalks. Preparing for imminent attacks on their innocence and imagination. Lives taken too soon by the toxic choices of an older generation, whose hateful testaments are written on winds choked with bullets. Trigger fingers reducing peace signs to flatlines. See the children draw body outlines on sidewalks. Used to be a time we could wash away their problems with love, sweat, and determination. These days, some think all we need are thoughts and prayers to keep things quiet. Yeah, quiet like those brief silences between gunfire…

Days Like These

Days filled with foreshadowed kisses, poorly written blisses never revealing their full potential. Days when appendages feel like burdens you can never fully shake without splitting apart at the seams. Days when lives get lost in translation moving from one growing pain to the next. Days when daggers in the back are the only form of acupuncture available. When the unsteadiness of breath can no longer hold tranquility. When history repeats itself over and over just to hear the sound of its own cruel voice. Days like these, I will wait for you.

Days Like These

Days filled with foreshadowed kisses, poorly written blessings that never reveal their full mercies. Days when appendages feel like burdens you can never shake without splitting apart at the seams. Days when lives get lost in translation moving from one growing pain to the next. Days when daggers in the back are the only form of acupuncture available. When the unsteadiness of breath can no longer hold tranquility. When history repeats itself over and over just to hear the sound of its own cruel voice. Days like these, I will wait for you.

How Much Lower Must We Go?

Cruel undercurrents of past events have led to riptides of current events. Mississippi cross burnings have cast the light by which Charlottesville racists lit their tiki torches. Nixon’s lies paved the way for today’s far more politically corrupt to traffic the Constitution through a dark underworld of lawlessness. One of the signs of a society’s new beginnings is its previous downfall. How much lower must we go before we’ve limboed beneath our last chance for salvation? Hear the voices of soul counterfeiters peddling a world marred with oblivion’s fingerprints. Hear the voices of vibrant dreams nurtured by a history of uplift and uprising.

Ain’t Gonna Hex, Vex, or Polar Vortex You

Ain’t gonna hex, vex, or polar vortex you. Ain’t gonna race shame, play the blame game, or lie through my teeth to you. Ain’t gonna lynch or Grinch your highest shine. Ain’t gonna build a wall around your mind. Won’t traffic you into a world of madness. Play painful notes on your piano of gladness. Won’t bumrush your heaven, leave your booty bread unleavened. Won’t bomb your aplomb or kickbox your jukebox. Like I said, ain’t gonna hex, vex, or polar vortex you. I’m just warming up to the notion that if we cause the right commotion, we can create a whole lotta beauty, love, and light in our times.

Tattoo You

Tattoo me with freedom. Tattoo me with compassion. Tattoo me with utopia. Tattoo me with nihilism. Tattoo me with a dove. Tattoo me with a bomb. Tattoo me with shackles. Tattoo me with calm. Tattoo me with salvation. Tattoo me with a cloud. Tattoo me with money. Tattoo me with allowed. Tattoo me with reason. Tattoo me with blues. Tattoo me with music. Tattoo me with you.

Afterlife

In one afterlife I was a joke with no punchline.

In another afterlife I was your punching bag.

In one I was Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

In another I was the soul of Galileo welcomed back into the grace of God.

In one afterlife I was the last train to Clarksville.

In another afterlife I was a peace train that moonlighted as a midnight train to Georgia.

In one I kept confusing omen with amen.

In another I was an air guitar tuner.

In one afterlife I was an angel with an axe to grind.

In another I was a phone that always rang at 3 a.m.

In one afterlife I was a law that never got broken.

In another I was a graveyard where everyone came back to life.