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I Am Broken
I am broken; I am mended.
I am broken; I am scarred. Lessons learned and some forgotten,
and I say, “Again, Lord, really—again?”
Round and round, my thoughts conflicted, hope and despair in this raw dance,
sure and steady, moments from the fall,
and I am broken; I am mended.
I am broken; I’m dependent, neither seeing nor knowing at all.
My Book of Uncommon Prayers: God of the Slimmest of Chances
Hope looks through any open window,
squints through cracks at a barely visible, a barely possible future
because it is what we were made for–
hope, that is.
So even when life is its darkest, and smothering stresses would
choke, cling, and cloud,
there it is; there I am,
seeking that one weak seam
and finding the splinter of truth that shows its way beyond all this
to hope and a future.
So I hold on,
and I pray on: “God of the slimmest of chances, deliver me.”
Happiness is . . .
Happiness is a colorful quilt, a long nap, a sleepy kitty, and a soft monkey. I definitely need a monkey!
Ahhhhhhhhhhh!
Ahhhhhhhhhhh, the smell of high-carb alfalfa in the morning!
The Hint of Forever
Feet all too solid on the ground,
and looking up makes me dizzy.
But to not look up through the worldly web, through the twisted intertwining threads of confusion and oppositional tyranny
means that I have given up on reaching the blue—heaven haven.
It means I have despaired of anything beyond the chaos, the dark spindly hope that wraps itself snuggly around halting breaths of prayer,
and looks up,
looks to the hint of forever just past the carnal canopy.
I Am America
I am America, and I have lost my soul.
I hid it under this bushel for safekeeping,
but when evil sucked dry and despair rose, I went back to find it;
and there was a gaping hole where a soul should be.
***
I am America, and I hid my best treasure
while investing in trinkets and bangles and flat-screen fiction,
ignoring the gaunt hungry by the side of the road,
supposing that anyone capable of making such a lovely sign
was surely capable of holding down a job.
At least, that’s what I’m thinking in my stinking rich car
with my skinny latté and my skinny jeans.
***
I am America, and I need a hero to find my soul.
I hid it under this bushel for safekeeping,
but when a wet horror-cry echoed and I remembered its worth,
in that dearth I knew perhaps I was lost.
For…
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When You
When you can’t cry, or will not because your heart is hard,
I will cry for you—tears to seek the cracks, a way in.
When you can’t listen, I will be your ears
to hear the hope in a flower, a bird, a melody.
When you can’t speak, I will whisper words your heart would say
in unguarded moments, if it could crawl from beneath the dead weight.
When you can’t believe—when your faith lisps with fragile emptiness,
I will believe in the darkness for both of us.
When you can’t pray, I will pray.
When you can’t,
when you won’t,
I will
with hope.
Apronhead 