Faith, Health, and Other Musings
May our minds flourish with creation, and may our hands never deny its expression.
Lo, but if we exchanged in commerce
with kindness as currency
and commensurate compassion,
then – and only then –
would wealth be something of honor.
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The raven abandons
the broken branches
of a fallen tree.
Deep within the
sunken forest,
I recall this place
full of life.
Heavier is the burden of death
when you cannot
forget the shades of green.
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I said she was mine
and he was mine.
They were mine.
And I swallowed them whole,
cherishing the explosive flavor of control.
Then, He came,
and pulled them from my throat.
He told me they were His.
They were all His.
But he didn’t devour them.
What kind of revolution is this?
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When I sigh, heavily, in the morning,
my lungs breathe your name.
As my legs stand,
my joints ache your pain.
While I work and I toil,
my back lifts your blame.
When I sigh, heavily, at dusk,
my lungs breathe your name.
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The freedom to know, to choose, to turn outward or inward, is the substructure of a mind healthy in its breathing. Cut off from freedom, the mind rebels, reconstructing reality, growing, fostering in acridity, for it is against its wandering, curious nature, a sort of cruel starvation. So, the mut bites, lurches at its captors — to show them they are not as gods and to project what it feels like to be a beast, cornered.
To restrict the font of knowing is nearly oppression without flaw, for it maddens its subjects, yet it undoes itself steadily, constantly, quietly, as it fashions repressed who have less and less to lose until all that is left to lose is nothing, and control expires.
Praise to poetry
for expression,
for its cure to depression —
for the wild thoughts it raises
for its universal phrases –
for culture and for flavor
for being a mental place saver —
for fervor and reflection
for emotional resurrection.
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This time is deceit
for I’ve felt eternity
in my longing for you
and an immortality in your love.
So, external time withers,
for all time is within you.
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The poor cry out;
we close our doors for the noise.
The poor plead;
we slam our windows for the sound.
The poor hope for relief;
we clasp our hearts for the burden.
The poor die.
They should have said something.
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She’s never been my sun;
she’s a vibrant moon,
and when her tides pull me in,
the waves crash and carry
my howl
for her.
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I spent most of 2018 in the bedlam of poetry. Poetry is like a wound — one that pains and one that heals. The wound is internal, garnering leverage over the organs with every experience the poet encounters. It forms and it festers, spreading wildly throughout the trunk of a person until it finally reaches the hands. And, through claws rigid with purpose, the poetry is expelled as ink onto parchment. The lesion that once victimized the poet transforms into liniment that relieves the aching reader.
My poetry was finally, fully expelled in November 2018 when I published, with great trepidation and greater reward, my first compilation of poems: Strong Language
It was equal parts triumph and relief to fashion 77 wounds into an ordered piece of writing. Enthusiastic for every breed and every style of literature, my mind hammered the stone in a thousand different shapes at once. I could not tell the stone what shape I wanted, for I wanted them all. So, I abandoned expectations, prescriptive rules, and reservations to just form as many sculptures in as many styles as my mind ached to construct. My book of poetry is without a determined style and is without a certain format. It is a flowing river of bloody letters expelled from my wounds.
Poetry is alluring yet strikingly powerful – a delicate strike of lightning. I will remain in the storm a little longer.
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Faith, Health, and Other Musings 