I’ll pretend I don’t know nothin’
You pretend you’ll set me straight
That somehow I’ll know somethin’
You were bid down under
To be taken down under
And be taken with the down under
Only to emerge
Having seen the tapestry
From below and above, in full
You were chosen to taste fear
To digest metal
That your feet would seek magnetic North
I, the storyteller in training
You, the epic tale
We, one mind, two hemispheres
Why if we scream
Are we questioned
Our sanity
Our faithfulness
Our allegiance with true patriots
What of war cries
Of the war crimes
Our eyes opened
Our sleeves rolled-up
Our feet planted where lies cannot stand
When Good returns
To the Empire
Who’ll be kneeling
Who’ll be weeping
Who’ll be seeing that they have no clothes
What is it you Hope?
The steps of your Days, designed?
The Epic, real?
At times, I’m frightened
Stargazing above, alone
Wishing you were here
Pancakes on a Sunday morning were never supposed to be so loud.
The only sounds I’d predicted were newspapers unfolding, rustling pages after an appropriate period of time.
Harp-laced sunshine musically poured from the orange juice pitcher to your glass, my son.
Cozy, fluffy, buttermilk breaths, exhaling at long last, I wanted for us.
But the week had gotten the better of me.
Instead you heard man’s demands and the echoes of entitled children.
Screeching chairs against cold floor tiles and anxiety-producing forced air overhead.
Waste and plastic and a bit of excess.
But there was the blessed color, wasn’t there?
Tell me you noticed, beautiful.
The smiles of the Sunday workers, employed by capitalism, but still genuine and holding their own.
The crowd beside us in Sunday best, good news and gospel aglow.
Brothers and sisters we are.
Take that from the morn, my child.
This lovely, winding, seasonal scene of our lives.
And the time we were given and allowed ourselves.
One would ask, “Wouldn’t it be lovely?”
Driving down gridded streets that sometimes wound East, then South.
Thinking of shutters painted contrasting colors, or perhaps altogether removed.
One imagines children’s summertime voices.
Carefree and popsicle glee, front sidewalks their territory.
As it should be.
One seems perfect there.
Small and yellow, with miles and miles of welcome.
Surely big enough for whatever weather.
I need to think they know each other
They, the other-worldlies
The lost-in-noticing-ers
With vocabularies of gods, speculating
I see them and fall mesmerized
Them, with foreheads furrowed
With wanting, wondering
How the world’s this way or that
I crave their impetus
Their, them, that electrified being
That doesn’t seek convention
Or need to be defined
There was in that dark house
A dark corner
Barricaded by a bookcase
Shelves of borrowed, unused wisdom
Visitors might only glimpse
One trying afternoon
Two deja vu’s too many
A final conversation
A one-sided determination
A voice overdue journeyed forth
And She Said
Let there be light
For She Knew
There should be light
There can be color
There in the aftermath
A dark mess
Cobwebs and chipped paint
A different bookcase revealed
She scrubbed and painted Green
Will you be there for me?
You will be there for me.
Will you know what to say?
You will know what to say.
Will you Listen to me?
With your ear to my heart.
In the dark, what of that?
You will reflect my light.
When I hope, may we meet?
You are Hope embodied.
What is this we say
Words have power?
To send them out as little soldiers
Do we?
Dressed in armor plus tiny swords
Or in humility, altogether naked
Regardless revealing our hearts
When with any thought
Words can heal?
To speak them forth as mighty ministers
Ought I?
What bidding do I demand of them
Or in vulnerability, lowly ask
No matter what I stand to lose
LisaRosier.com 