We’ve all these -isms
Seeking meaning and purpose
Why neglect to Love?
What sustains you, friend?
And, as one eternally tethered to the We that is you, too
I care not of the answer
Unless it entreats you
Go the distance, scale the heights!
For lengths you gain at our expense
Whether dirt road or Wall Street
Are, in fact, as ten steps back
Photo Credit: Tiger R.; age 12
Self-hatred and angst
We will forthwith be free from
They said to their souls
Burning Bush Moments
God gives one to each of us
Let’s take off our shoes
This fight for each inch that we rise to perform
The truth of it is, we’re not built to conform
Would we, were we forced, fail a personal best?
No! For we’re not Earth’s penultimate guests
Fling that thing to the Moon
That thing that’s ailing you
Red flags, white flags, too
It’s not a day too soon
Let’s leave crazy to loons
Whose flightiness consumes
Consider this day new
Its call goes out to you
To sing the champion’s tune
An hour, now, clutching the cold morning coffee, an acrid-filled, comfortless cup.
Still dark.
Consumed, we, with what’s bearing down at the door — bellowing “more, more, and more!”
Its roar.
Will this new blanket be warm enough, this day sustain hope beyond the front-porch light?
Windows fogged.
Still, dawn’s bright, there, without, meets a heat — long-stored and stoked — here, within.
We Begin.
We are silvering
We are not tinsel, flat
Nor tinny, shallow sound whose echoes won’t be known a year from now
We are, “Mr. Watson, come here. I want to see you.”
We are precious shine
Mined from the deep
Ribbons of pricelessness chiseled from someplace dark we’d entered into
Unknowingly, perhaps, but prepared nonetheless
Thence emerged, the metal of us hard-earned
We cannot be traded, bartered, or sold
We are made of this
We are made from this
Will they see us in next century’s sky?
Yes! And, ’til the 12th of Never
Canyons, ancient, will carry our collective voice
We are silvering, and are not second-place
A revelation
A good tiding of great joy
That all shall be well
We must sit alone through This
No one has our back
Not forsaking sunlight then
Nor the sturdiness of these vintage legs
Doors behind us closed, by intent
Facing East, where will our colors lead us
What mystery does the morning hold
What certainty does twilight promise
LisaRosier.com 