Chit Chat, Busyness, Small Talk 

Chit chat, busyness, small talk

Kiddie pools filled with soundbytes,
three minute attention spans,
self-righteous indignation,
contrived malice,
get rich quick schemes,
and ego-stench
that’s always talking
Chit chat and busyness
that makes talk small
where listening doesn’t listen

Somewhere beyond
Chit chat, busyness & small talk
The lion remembered
His roar
By sitting sunrise to sunset
With the bumblebees
Who were told by the experts
That they cannot fly
Yet, they do
And their work pollinates
The world with life

The Lion dove back
Into the depths he’s created in
Remembering the life-giving
Nectar he’s made of
And he roared
Reclaiming his voice
Awakening the land
From the endless slumber
Of chit chat, busyness & small talk

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Moments of No Words

As a writer, I love words, yet I also love it when words stop – those moments in this life when there are no words. For it is in those moments where we see if the words we’ve written, spoken or quoted ever meant anything.

They talked and talked
Until they couldn’t talk anymore
The last words they wrote
were a question:
If we couldn’t speak
for the rest of our life,
what would the rest
of our life speak about us?

The Mirage of the Ego

The ego can only recognize ego …

The Mirage of the Ego

Two tired, lonely, and thirsty egos
Met at a cool spring
In the middle of the desert
The spring was surrounded
With a thick layer of rose petals
For weary travelers to sleep upon
After they drank
From the pristine water
The two egos departed
From that sacred site together
Yet both remained
Lonely, tired, and thirsty
All they could see
Was each other

 

i am Only a secretary

Some people say I am a writer
Others say I am a poet
Still, others say I am a counselor
No!
i am  nothing without Him
Him Who sent me
Him Who created me
Him Whose power 
keeps my heart beating,
my breath flowing,
He keeps me alive and sustains me
i am God’s child
Listening to His Majesty’s Holy dictates
writing, saying, and doing
what God says
i am only a secretary

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Stickman

Weather-made petroglyphs 
Showing temporary in all that’s built
Stickman falling apart
Chased by time
No matter how strong Stickman is
No matter how fast Stickman can run
Stickman falls apart
So he cracks up
Because that’s what he’s built for

Stickman is having a fucking breakthrough
Let him be fast when he’s fast
Let him be strong when he’s strong
Don’t spoil it for him
Because when he’s gone
We’ll need what’s left of him
for the fire
Fly, Stickman, fly!

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A Survivor’s Scream

Do you really understand?
You say you do,
but I can see in your eyes
that you cannot read
between the lines,
so if you really understood,
I wouldn’t have to spell it out

Besides, when I stood
before you as a youth
telling you my truth,
you rejected me

Where I’ve been,
what I’ve experienced –
the sights, sounds, smells,
pain, brokenness –
the colors of the institutions
isn’t something you understand

You think words like
fuck and shit are offensive
So when I enter a room
and instantly connect
with those you can’t
I see the condemnation in your eyes
the same looks
those like you
gave me when I was a youth –
daggers of self-righteous condemnation
emitting moral vomit,
puking your credentials, expertise,
and religious verses on us survivors
that we’ve heard so many times before,
but you’re not even strong enough
to listen to the truth we’ve lived
because that would interrupt
the delicate images in your mind
of how we’re supposed to be,
and cause you to miss our beauty –
the truth of our perfection
forged in fires of hell

We talk because we need to
not because we think you understand,
not because we think you’re listening
because you’re too busy
trying to protect yourself
from the realities
of a survivor’s scream –
a scream you cannot recognize
when you hear it,
and so you’re also blind
to
those
Sacred
moments
when
healing
is
happening

Poets – Ha!

Is a poet a poet
after they write
their first poem?
Or does a poet become a poet
in the moment God strikes them
with a concept so illuminating
that is has to be written?
Or is it in the moments long before
when there’s no inspiration,
only desperation?

Is it when academia decides?
No. None of these decide!

A poet becomes a poet
each and every time they swim
where love abides
Walking through minds and hearts
with words 
drenched – dripping
in the Great Love beyond pronunciation
as we smile, laugh or cry
Being refreshed by the Oasis of love
a poet brings
from so many things

the poets will never describe