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.