Saturday, January 11, 2014

in time.

If I were wind, I'd lift your wings
or arms, or heart, or other things.

I'd take your hand, and draw you close,
make gravity loose its tethering hold.

And high we'd go, outside our dreams,
to find the truth beyond our means.

Blind to boundary and all of it's lying,
free to be wind and carry you flying.

If I were light, I'd fill your frame,
warm you're heart, whisper your name.

Remind your thoughts of where they began,
convince your faith your more than sand.

I'd sing the song inside your bones,
resonate the forever sound of home.

Citizens of the sky we'd be,
if I were light and you believed.

If I were time, I'd lift you out,
so space was less of what life was about.

I'd peel back stars and layers perceived,
I'd close your eyes and help you to see.

I'd stop the gears and trickling sand,
I'd place universes in the palm of your hand.

All things you'd hear, and know, and feel,
and rest to know time is only partially real.

If I were hope, I'd have no foe,
undefeated, immortal, and I'd have you know.

I'd be permission to do all sorts of things,
to fly on the wind, take time on your dreams.

I'd let sunlight wake you too late in the day,
give second chance to things you might say.

There'd be no barrier or impossible wall,
if I were hope, and you did not feel small.

If I were you, I'd love me so much.
I'd relish the power in my words, my touch.

I'd know just how needed and wanted I am.
I'd harness the wind with only my hands.

If I were you, I'd relinquish the fight,
believe I was born of the beauty of light.

If I were you...
but I am not.

And sweetly swept amidst space and time, 
sailing change and defying mind,
we are bleeding hearts received as gold,
in the treasury of the known and bold;
coursing beneath a skin well trained,
grace and its glory in restricted veins.
Eternity written like fire in flesh,
consuming ideals, admiring the mess.

And I'll go to my grave and beyond it to sow
this seed in your heart...

 and in time, you'll know.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012


Try, try, and try again.

Crumble beneath the invisible wind.

Bleed your knees for all they're worth;
pretend you're well from the outside in.

Fight to stay the waning breath.

Lung, and limb, and no one left.

Remember light in eyes that tried;
jerk awake to loneliness.

Here we fell, in love and pain;

in circumstance; in crippling blame.

Here we breathe the stifling air,
contend too hard for the meager gain.

Try, try, strive to relieve;

captive to the knowledge of free.

This oubliette of darkness immersed;
where you never deserve opportunity.

And the trouble is...
It's the lie you know that becomes your creed,

in the war of real and reality.

Save Us.

Thursday, September 20, 2012

passing through.

These words move across pavements;
trailing momentum amidst gravity and motion.

Hear me, walls and thresholds..
I am just passing through.

The quiet breath of sole to cement.
Heel to toe, heart to mouth.

The tacit language of soul & lament.
Heal in tow, heart in mouth.

And your flavor settles,
finest wine; fragrant wind.

Body & bouquet put to rest;
Rest upon rest, upon resting again.

The greener the pasture,
the less seeing the sheep.

And we all, like sheep have...

So hear me,
you walls,
you thresholds.

I am a journey not for your keeping.
Time and space outside of your frame.

I am words, moving through pavements;
shadowing momentum through walls and hearts and motion.

Recurring breath of soul through cement.

I am just passing through.

Friday, September 14, 2012

as of lately. - Kellye Rae Miller

Timidity and fear have become more than just acquaintance.
In their masquerade of wisdom, they settled in my thoughts;
and I greeted them with no hostility,
I was curious to hear their advice.

My mind wrapped around their certainties,
Adopting their rationale, I gave them place in my heart.
They lived in a perfect breeding ground there,
 and came up for breath at uncertain future and unpaid bills.

They began to thrive there in the dark place,
letting themselves be known at every opportune time.
I elected their voice as a familiar friend;
their habits were now my heart response

I became well-versed in their unfulfilling melody,
so I added blame to their song.
The new addition crowned me lordship and power;
I disowned responsibility, I threw fault to whoever I felt fit.

I could hear their whispers about the future;
saying fear was soon to retire.
Blame began to pack up his voice,
and he moved from heart to mouth.

The move was difficult for us all.
Fear became irrelevant, forgotten.
The hierarchy had been established,
and fear lost its duty when others were at fault.

Time told us we could live on like this,
and we learned to tag-team accordingly.
Fear would occasionally make a cameo,
but only as blame's sidekick, aiding well in his accusation.

Beware to mistake this order for kinship,
wearily holding hands within the ranks;
for in the moment we interlocked our fingers,
the wind will trap us there in ripple and sway.

So down we fall, four frontline soldiers,
our tour sharply reaching its end.
We lie face down on our self-made battlefield,
Unveiled to the reality of the outside casualty count.

Sunday, September 9, 2012

to hope.

Hope is a perilous endeavor;

a precarious business,
wherein the condition of the heart
is the bearer of the weight.

Where the risk is to hope at all.

Hope is the opportunity.

The door to the chalkboard room;
walls, floor and ceiling,
bare and longing that You might compose Your dreams there.

That You might fill the empty space.

I have of my own will, before now;
but the intention of the characters is qualified by the author,
not merely the lean and weight of the hand.

Penmanship I wear well,
but I am not You.

I am not the night sky,
swelling with depth;
Effervescent glitter,
swallowed in immortal midnight blue.

I am not the light of day,
spilling gentle charity over earth and flesh;
bathing heart and fear with invincible warmth.

I am not benevolence.
Benevolent, Yes.
But who of the two of us calls goodness their offspring?

You are good.
Only You.

Hope; what perilous endeavor.

What treacherous footing to tread
on the path to promises fulfilled.

But You are sure.
Though my eyes dare not see,
You are sure...

And the risk is to hope at all.

Friday, July 6, 2012

where walking cease.

You've painted me a cripple;

stolen the virtue of trained limbs,
and given little explanation.

I breathed in the cool of the day;
alive in the innocence of ignorance,
drinking deeply its wonder...

or at least so I believed.

But beyond the flaming gates,
in the land east of Eden,
my heart returned to the dust.

My flesh remembered;
my veins coursed liquid air,
acquired with my adequate lungs.

And there I understood alone.

"To what gain", said the earth.
"To what gain is your walking?

You only move further away from where it is that you're going."

"For what purpose", groaned creation.
"For what purpose is your talking?

You only declare things you have not understood"

But what of my lungs;
are they not strong?

What of these legs;
do they not carry me forward on sinew and bone?

What of these eyes;
can they not perceive the way before me?

There I understood alone.

For all of my going,
and breathing,
and seeing...
I've done my good to the end of Yours.

Blinded in the brilliant light
of the likeness impressing itself,

I lost my way in finding it well.

So paint me the cripple;
You owe me no explanation.

Make me to lie down,
so You might lead me beside.

Restore the soul that surrenders;
restore the soul that has given up.

So that someone beside myself,
so that You,
might rescue me.

Paint me the cripple,
in the garden where walking cease.

Thursday, May 31, 2012


Count the cost, they say.

And I sit in my waiting,
yet to find a relinquishment of my own...

yet to bear witness to any forfeiture of mine
that wears its bravery proudly.

At least not in light of this.

Lonely is the vessel, in an estranged sea.
Bartering with currents,
Contending with waves...

...a campaign against wind
and odds
for the sincerity of it's proud hull.

But lonely is the vessel,
proceeding against a trained sea.
Hoping against hope to find one of its own kind.

A voice in the wilderness,
orphaned in its cause.

Count the cost, they say?

At what return...?

Lonely is the vessel,
and cost is inherent within the wound.

Deserted in the cost
of counting all else as loss..

..of calling the bluff,
and heralding an epic

that nurtures no counting at all.

And I sit in my waiting...

yet to bear witness to any forfeiture of mine
that wears its bravery proudly.

At least not in light of this.