#spilled prayers

[fromtheabundance]

This prayer returns to me like a dream. I am engulfed in need. My throat feels heavy with the yoke of memory. Both arms raised in an excruciating reach - I am empty again.

prayers of spring, no. 5

[plasticgardenicons]

Holy Saturday

Sit with the silent stupor of our dazzled heart unaccustomed to waiting, we wait from the bottom of an abyss thinking deeply about kitchen sounds and the sounds of humans, of God’s creation, continue unabated all we don’t know, the fundamental particles and forces of nature the sadness at the bottom of our very real and beating hearts, rise and fall and rise again to comfort all these things just dead or traveling through the phases of dying. A question for faith perhaps, the only one prepared to answer, treated as a patient without knowledge the veil now rent this carnal substance, abandoned to the dark, there the price is indifferent the expedition clothes thrown in a desk drawer waiting until forever. Still, the white slab yields gently under our feet the last stone comes alive in the shadow of real appearance, for the soul itself to dream of such miracles, beyond what we ourselves believe we understand.

[charmmstone]

Fighting the silences

There is a sinister silence that suppresses There are two who do that dance One is me - the succumber,  Imprisoned by a broken system, the law, the institution It seems a monster too great to combat The mind twists and contorts and exaggerates The mind slowly and invisibly shames So years go by, believing so many things.

The messages sinking lower into the cracks of me,  becoming part of me; I am silent because I have nothing Unintelligent  Weak Impressionable Not well read Unable Possibly invisible Unnoticeable Inaudible

Somewhere in me is the will to pick up and inspect each of these things, as stones in a path. I twinge with grief over each lie, and strangely feel the comfort I had in it. If I have an excuse, then what is there to do?  Certainly not go bravely into the crowd.

With some gentle unraveling and combing, I am reminded of some evidence that I can turn over in my hands that proves I can be:  not - nothing.

Like, yesterday I went blackberry picking. And I was part of something. I used my hands to make a cobbler. It really is just flour and sugar and butter. But I can use my worthy hands to create a taste and an aroma that has never failed to bring joy and comfort to my home.

And how sometimes my passion forces me to blurt out the ideas in my head, however jumbled because I know I can stand on the truth of them. To hell with being eloquent! 

Maybe I won’t be the woman I have created in my mind. Polished, Even, Neat, Eloquent. It doesn’t mean I can’t be the woman I am. Which is certainly not silent. 

As my enemies stack up at the fences, And the hurdles seem unnumbered,  And the faces blank and asleep, And the harvest unknown, unseen, 

I can still say that I have hands,  I have a voice,  I have a mind,  I have a fire,  I have my experiences, my world, I have a presence,  And yes, I am here to tell you that I too, can take up space in this raggedy old world. I can be gloriously un-sorry and un-repentant for such a crime. 

[plasticgardenicons]

Easter Sunday

Resurrection must be disorienting as the body regulates to a kind of nonlinear being, from death to light, body weight surrounded and infused by eternity. Inside your ribs the empty tomb that always whispered back, demanding you trust the secrets woven into the discarded shroud, the ultimate price of your skin and bone divinity— to suffer to die, and your feet traversing through the land of the dead and waiting, to carry them not back but forward. Your body beyond the duality of healed /not healed, those who loved you most, who did not abandon you as you hung pinned to the tree of final things, as gravity squeezed the life from your lungs, don’t recognize you dressed in your flesh beyond death. Thomas himself his fingers searching for belief for faith in your clean, fresh wounds the earth drove into you, until you pass onto us the new world we must make through love alone and our small earthbound eyes opened reluctantly and wide by the morning.

[fromtheabundance]

[fromtheabundance]

wrecked

where is my anchor of soul

drowned in the black loss

of dense iniquity 

pray, light of god

blot out my name

with your neon beam

lead my frame, wrecked 

passing through your 

stormy breath into bone-shore

palms of hand, engraved 

stretch my sins past returning 

pierce me with mercy’s marrow 

break my throne in a fit of praise

fill a dying star with holy blood

and carve the way, quickly

in violent peace 

above my collapsing 

hope

[crowkiiing]

there is a certain type of. emptiness.

that comes with realizing that all you are

is a match to start others’ light

yet you can’t start your own.

burned out. // r.a. 

[wordsbyt]

When she prays for me, she gets what she wants.....