a simple snippet about change.
The years have bought grace and wisdom
And with them comes the realization
That I don’t know as much
As I would like to believe
But I know better than to think
change will ever be over
for the unchanging character
of the creator
gives him the freedom
to create change
but he is a good father,
so this change brings grace.
(I ask; I’ll receive: a resolution)
I asked Him to build me with honesty, the same honesty that led Him from the Garden of Gethsemane and nailed Him up on that God forsaken tree. Because I’m tired of being what I believe is a portrayed image of me- mistress folly, mystery isn’t sexy- it’s holy, it’s set apart because it’s something you can’t smell taste hear touch or see unlike you- because I see right through you. You’re as sick as your secrets and you just can’t see it because you’re knocking back drinks hoping you’ll find a more bearable reality. But this is it- so embrace this current state of things because it breaks my heart that you’re only honest when you have the freedom to wake up not remembering the truth.
I asked Him to paint me the different hues of purples and blues, the color of a bruise, with freckles of yellow and green. The kind of bruise you get from pressing your knees into the floor so deep whenever you’re crying out at heaven waiting for a response. The kind of bruise that you keep touching just to see how much it hurts. One that you can be proud of because you know you’ve earned it. I want to be a color that indicates I’m growing and being made more new and whole than I was before.
I asked Him to take my poetry through healing, I want it to go from hurting to hopeful because to me- regardless of what anyone thinks- it’s too lovely to keep suffering internally. Wrap me in empathy, courage, gentleness, and creativity. Name me hope. Name me authenticity.
I asked Him to give me new feet. I want a dancer’s feet with blisters that know the friction of moving across a bare floor with repetition, repetition, repetition. I want to be content with the mundane because repetition, repetition, repetition doesn’t invalidate the movement of the human body. I want an explorer’s feet rough from walking day after day over whatever lots they are cast, having the faith to believe that they will hold me up, with the weight of a nail, rising and falling as they inevitably will, taking me home.
Closed Doors
My flesh feels left behind, body outside of mind. “In between” the pull of my finger on the trigger; the thumb of God and His finger; the walk from door to door.
My spirit fights a cough in my throat to sing- say “ahhhh.” I cough. When doors are closed, I want to dance to eucharisteo. But this paralysis is like this- this infection of excuses spreading throughout my body, the beep beep beep of the machine flat lining “lay down and rest, it’s so easy” despondency overcomes me. Pain paints the walls of my funeral home, over the lines remembering the days I would stand up straight and let Dad measure me, “beloved, you’re growing!” and I forget it’s even possible. I forget anything is possible with G- I cough.
Dear body, don’t listen to mind. Dear body, be free. Dear body, be somebody.
Dear God, I just want to be somebody.
Instead I cough; I sleep.
I dream of home sweet Jesus Christ made of windows.
I write my prayers on my skin so on nights like this, their light burning in the darkness keeps me awake instead of this-I cough. A scripted story of my scars meeting His.
When doors close your ears hear them sing or whisper or scream, but it all comes down to hearing His breath in the hinges. And I do- I hear it in the distance like my mother’s voice when it was time to come in.
Dear God, let me in.
I take another step in the between. I cough.
Dear God, let remember how to breathe.
All I want to do is sing sel-I cough. Sing sel- I cough… SING SELAH! I fight to sing because I fight to breathe and there isn’t a breath that doesn’t sing syllables of his name. I’ll keep singing because I will keep breathing until I die or I will die.
I hear him knocking. From behind a door a few fronts down the street.
The Shift
Cozy and comfortable I find unbearable
But they seduce me with promises of rest and recovery
When in the end, I’m left with complacency
My God, how did we get here in this big ol’ easy chair
That has chained down my wrists
And left me with cold, purple limbs?
I’ve become a part of this place,
I’ve melted into its perfect cookie cutter frame.
Mmm, a cookie? I’ll have one, maybe two…twenty?
And as I stuff my face, consumed with gluttony,
The hurting cry out around me
“God, where are we?
Where are you?
As your followers around us
Are lustfully consumed with all that glitters but will soon rust”
Because you see my church, we’re soon to bust
We’re shoving creations down our throat
Leaving room for only us,
Even God himself is being pushed and shoved into corners
As we muffle our own cries,
Fearful of what?
Having hearts of flesh instead of an empty treasure chest?
God, I pray you rip open my chest and make me less
I pray I see myself as yours
Instead of a copy of a copy of a copy
Of what this earth bore
Take this heart of stone and these old wretched bones
And make them new
God, let me see only you
Rae of Poeima 