I want to cry
To burst
into uncontrollable tears
To drown
you with them
To run
and bury my head
To end
this life and start over again.
Dancing with You
Dancing with You is like,
drinking from a fountain--
refreshing,
a cool splash-inside
on the back of a dry throat.
A desert resurrected.
Dancing with You is like,
new life—
refreshing,
a return of breath to empty, decaying flesh-
motion to stillness-
and a return of marrow to once hollow bones.
Decay reversed, and a beat returned to a still-born heart.
Dancing with You is like—
humm…and I am afraid, for I have
2
left
feet.
drinking from a fountain--
refreshing,
a cool splash-inside
on the back of a dry throat.
A desert resurrected.
Dancing with You is like,
new life—
refreshing,
a return of breath to empty, decaying flesh-
motion to stillness-
and a return of marrow to once hollow bones.
Decay reversed, and a beat returned to a still-born heart.
Dancing with You is like—
humm…and I am afraid, for I have
2
left
feet.
Cinnamon & Nutmeg
His heart beats as mine-
us intertwined-
two curved lines in sync in our own time-
fully aligned.
We are the only two, one-of-our-kind
for I am he and he is mine.
His arms return my embrace-
his chest too.
In the strength of his hold I am fully encased.
Cleft in the rock and cradled by his breathe,
I escape, for the moment, life’s painful race,
hanging my tired soul, wet like linen whites, on the nails of his embrace.
His backbone sways to envelope my weight,
drinking me in, digesting me fully--I am not his mistake.
He returns my gaze with an emboldened stare,
his smile meets mine erupting there a delectable-little-flare.
Caressing his likeness within my cheeks,
he brands me with a simple kiss; we are what the other seeks.
Ever absorbent of the sounds I make,
knowing what I say before words take shape
yet remaining patiently still, listening, till my air breaks
and out pours my insides-- He waits,
knowing when to give and when to simply take
(he penetrates without coming into my space).
A forest above me, is he
absorbing the beatings of the sun.
His left hand firmly fans within the lumber of my spine
around him I wind, and hold on for dear life.
His shoulders are two mountain ranges lovingly erected on either side of me.
Where do I lay my head to rest? On his chest…
where I nurse on the milk of his
reciprocity.
us intertwined-
two curved lines in sync in our own time-
fully aligned.
We are the only two, one-of-our-kind
for I am he and he is mine.
His arms return my embrace-
his chest too.
In the strength of his hold I am fully encased.
Cleft in the rock and cradled by his breathe,
I escape, for the moment, life’s painful race,
hanging my tired soul, wet like linen whites, on the nails of his embrace.
His backbone sways to envelope my weight,
drinking me in, digesting me fully--I am not his mistake.
He returns my gaze with an emboldened stare,
his smile meets mine erupting there a delectable-little-flare.
Caressing his likeness within my cheeks,
he brands me with a simple kiss; we are what the other seeks.
Ever absorbent of the sounds I make,
knowing what I say before words take shape
yet remaining patiently still, listening, till my air breaks
and out pours my insides-- He waits,
knowing when to give and when to simply take
(he penetrates without coming into my space).
A forest above me, is he
absorbing the beatings of the sun.
His left hand firmly fans within the lumber of my spine
around him I wind, and hold on for dear life.
His shoulders are two mountain ranges lovingly erected on either side of me.
Where do I lay my head to rest? On his chest…
where I nurse on the milk of his
reciprocity.
Penmanship
There is something about a pen’s permanency
that makes me shrink away from it-
intimidated.
Too much pressure to be
right
perfect
clear, neat and always,
legible.
On white paper if I sign my own name, my own way
I am still told to
“PLEASE PRINT”
And should I dare make a mistake
I must either
crumble up my perfect white paper and start over
or
cross it out, forever being stamped with the scarlet proclamation,
“I MADE A MISTAKE,” with the error there remaining,
alive, breathing-pulsing-beneath the scribble, staining
my perfect white paper.
Never mind the lines are not long enough for all of my information,
or
the space provided is not large enough for me to make my full markings
or, truthfully,
my hand is trembling from feelings of great shame and regret
as I fill out these here papers…
while my body feeds, without my choice, this unborn substance left by my choice.
The one great consolation about pencils
is that a mistake is easily erased away…
like it never happened.
…I wonder if that’s what Jesus was trying to convey.
that makes me shrink away from it-
intimidated.
Too much pressure to be
right
perfect
clear, neat and always,
legible.
On white paper if I sign my own name, my own way
I am still told to
“PLEASE PRINT”
And should I dare make a mistake
I must either
crumble up my perfect white paper and start over
or
cross it out, forever being stamped with the scarlet proclamation,
“I MADE A MISTAKE,” with the error there remaining,
alive, breathing-pulsing-beneath the scribble, staining
my perfect white paper.
Never mind the lines are not long enough for all of my information,
or
the space provided is not large enough for me to make my full markings
or, truthfully,
my hand is trembling from feelings of great shame and regret
as I fill out these here papers…
while my body feeds, without my choice, this unborn substance left by my choice.
The one great consolation about pencils
is that a mistake is easily erased away…
like it never happened.
…I wonder if that’s what Jesus was trying to convey.
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