Grace
pool newly made from morning rain,
murky brown and burnt umber
it halts my onward march
I stop to consider the way round
brush and bush lay right
hectic stream lays left
both lead somewhere
playing for time to make my choice
I crouch before it
wondering if I dipped
fingers into its stillness
would I be rebaptized
into the ancient creation
layer upon layer of life
brewing, bubbling in this
sudden fen
God's breath still moves
across the waters
pulling from chaos
this sacred pause
All the tiny deaths
A soul suffers in a
day.
From silence when you
want to speak,
Speaking and being
unheard.
All the tiny deaths
That come from hiding
who you are
And being what you’re
not
The soul withers and
shrinks
Just a little bit
more
With each bitten
tongue,
Clenched fist,
Restrained smile
The truth might set
it free
But honesty takes
courage
And courage comes
from truth
And the truth cannot
be told
So the soul keeps
dying
All the tiny deaths
But without death’s
release
So the soul just
keeps on trying
Clinging to hope and
life and
Waiting for
resurrection
If it should ever
come.
Until then it endures
All the tiny deaths.
you’ll want to eat your feelings
with chocolate chips
and mini marshmallows
and a chaser of crunchy
peanut butter
that’s okay but don’t
forget to treat yourself
to oreos or fudge
stripes too
commit small acts of
defiance like
pressing all the try
me buttons on toys in Walmart
or refuse to concede
to society’s demands for
capital letters or
punctuation
you’re burned out not
grammar’s bitch
it’s okay to feel old,
like really old
like thirty or forty
or maybe seventy
years older than you
actually are
burn out does not respect
age but it does age you
comfort tv helps
so do naps
your mind can be turned off
when the partridge
family is turned on
just remember you are
burned out
because life is hard
and sometimes feels like a slog
through deep sucking
mud
yet maybe there’s dry
land ahead
maybe the color green
blooms just beyond
your line of vision
and lavender and roses
grow abundantly
thickening the air with
their perfume
Get
in line.
Are
you looking for someone to blame,
a
slow-moving target,
a
convenient scapegoat?
Get
in line.
Are
you looking for me to take
your
side, go to battle
in
this pathetic war that’s been declared?
Find
someone else
willing
to lose their head.
It
has become clear
that
I am a pawn in your
Childish
Petty
Junior
High
Game.
But
I refuse to play.
I’m
tired.
Worn
to the bone.
I
can’t do this anymore.
I
CANNOT
DO
THIS
ANYMORE.
Junior
High was
a
long time ago.
Drama
was just a hobby.
I’m
done.
Does
that make you mad?
Get
in line.
I am
singed,
charred, scorched.
Anger,
blame, and shame
have
reduced me to ash.
The former form of me,
body and mind,
spirit
and soul,
is now only outline
filled
in with smoke.
Touch
me,
I
am little more than
swirling
haze.
Breathe
on me,
I
blow away.
Nothing
left but
smoldering
embers
of
memory
and
misunderstanding
Take this stole
from my neck,
this robe
off my back.
You don’t scare me
with your salt.
I will look back.
Pull this cross
from my chest,
yank this Bible
outta my hand.
I’m over it, God.
You take them
to that promised land
Block me from
the pulpit,
keep me from
the font.
My well is dried up,
living water’s all gone.
My soul wastes from want.
In case you
haven’t noticed,
I’m tired and I’m worn.
Exhausted from the
trying,
the worry and the
strain.
My prayers return unanswered,
so, yes, I will
complain.
The good news
feels damn lousy,
your kingdom
just won’t come.
Hope has left
the building,
the parts outdo the
sum.
This poem is for
the clergy,
the prophets and
the priests.
Feed us like
you promised,
or make this calling
cease.
The sheep have
bruised the shepherd,
the hens embraced
the fox.
It’s lonely where
I’m standing,
the one outside the
box.
