Denim Brother

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This is for you and not me
Not we, not us
Nor those or they

You are to know that you’re valued
And needed and good just as is
No more, no less ought there be

I step in and not too close
Hoping you’ll hear
You’re grand, but not with your ears

Maybe my forearms
Around your denim back
Will tell all that needs to be told

What that my heart decrees 
Come chest to chest
To beat with yours ever so near

I will not release you
I’ll never release you 
And all that I wish is your sigh 

What Trust

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Is there a reason not to do this?

Is there a reason not to tear out my mind, haul it to sea, throw it to the deep?

What right has it had to do the same to my heart?

Day after day, year after year.

May it be my mission.

I see no reason not to do this. 

Kind, Wild, Friend

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“August 25th,” she said and thought breathlessly, searching for wisdom and a pen. “I have called you friends.” Joy…surrender…eyes on Him. Yes, all wise mortar for new Life. 

Onto love. It doesn’t matter the date, love “Is.” Daily. Lasts only a moment, but exists in each moment. Thanks, god. Her method today: seek it upside down and backward. Flip with eyes closed through its intentionally silky pages and choose the one just after the most proud. Turn it up-side-up and look to your right. There he is. Talking about wild again. Blurred, inked wild. Yes, this is only love. 

Truth?  She knows so. Here, see youth, invasion, then the dark surrender – but not invasion of the soul, not surrender of the spirit. She takes from today its lesson and gives back the gift of her understanding. Yes, truth demands kindness and compassion nevertheless. 

He placed a piece of His divine in us all, she’s relieved to learn. “I have called you friends….”

The Road Before Us

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I think there’s pale, storm blue.

And a handprint or two. In black, but gentle, not graffiti-like.

I hear green breathing in and giving back.

Soft fibers that fell from all over. Reminders of the eyes and hands behind them.

Amber inviting throughout the space.

Smiles. Wisdom-teaching smiles, that comfort and Save. 

Hard-covered poetry within arms reach.

Wooden bowls, filled for friends, beside the window that’s right where it’s needed. 

 

Courting Anger: A Writing Prompt

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I’m encouraged to channel my anger, 

to sit with it. Take it to tea. 

“So, you’re real,” I’d say, half looking away, hoping it would not take note of me. 

“Is this about the table I bought you for Valentine’s Day?” I’m sure it would respond, looking at me in its superior way. “Because I was sick of looking at the other one,” it’d quip. 

Sigh. Seeing its sad state of insight

and a lack of rhythm or kind goal,

“I release you,” I’d murmur, feeling more self-assured, “but I’ll take back my eyes, mind and soul.”