Mar 17  Don't Call Me Johnny
Melissa S
Melissa S
Feb 10

I don't need any flowers
the flowers will only die
All I want is beautiful words
Spoken from hearts melody
As if poured out of
Raindrops from the sky
Wet and weightless rinsing
Away all my pain
Permeating through my very skin
Leaving only sugary alphabet stains
Filling up a place inside me
that has long been desolate and dry
Leaving me no choice but to close my eyes
Take it all in and breathlessly sigh
Let all the honey notes wrap around my ears
Resonating only good thoughts
Calming away all my darkened fears
Whispering to me a symphony
of sound in such a beautiful hush
That when I finally do open my eyes
All I can do is blush

  Mar 17  Don't Call Me Johnny
Joel M Frye
Joel M Frye
Dec 20, 2016

The silence of solitude
sings to me at night;
words whispered
for my ears only
while the house sleeps.
I draw from the well
of my self, and savor
each drop thirstily.
The starving beast within
gnaws at every fresh
crust of aloneness,
melted butter soothing
scalded hands,
until my rumbling gut
is sated, and is at peace
with itself and the world.

Foolish to regret the past
or worry about the future.
You cannot change
what doesn't exist.

He was that little old
bow-legged black man
who rang the church bells
every Sunday morning;
a patch-pantsed singer
of drowned-out hymns--
soulful contentment gracing
his weather-beaten face.
For over sixty years
the faithful sexton tolled
those brass giants and sent
his fervent praise Heavenward.
He was ill-paid, rarely thanked
scarcely noticed. The only
applause he'd ever received
on this Earth came from
the clapping of the bells.
Still, as this man's last breath
filled him with sweet, soaring
satisfaction, countless choirs
of rejoicing angels confirmed
the bell-ringer had far more
than done his job and had
indeed, always been heard.

Endeavoring to acquaint an unbeliever
with his own immortal soul
is very much like trying
to convince a caterpillar
that it's actually
a butterfly-in-waiting.

Am awed
by snowflake designs
so intricately lovely
and cosmically unique--
made rarer still
by existences
in scant seconds.

Truth pains the suavely deceptive, the worldly
who apparently see its simple revelation--indeed
its very existence--as an affront to good manners, a breach
of their liar's etiquette. Should the weak, the sly, the corrupt
and the amoral plot to destroy you, take heart! You, in all
likelihood, represent something intolerable to them
someone they cannot control with their lies; someone
who reveres the truth. When the torturers come
to "convert" you, when they try to break you
down with their painful cuts, you will
most certainly not bleed to death
you will--as do all preservers
of The Light--
bleed to life.

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