they say
what doesn't **** you
makes you Stronger
but
the pain lasts and the
blood-pump grows weary,
A heavy
heart is quite the burden
and shoulders only hold
so much..
but,
for as long
as the sun
shines there will be
brightness

I see it in the asphalt bumps and sidewalk cracks.
Earth, she don't want to be flat.

Smooth her out with concrete blocks
She'll move and turn without a thought.

Spent most of her life clothed with tempestuous life.
This recent pavement trend leads to unwanted strife.

We build our cornered, straightened, flat, leveled space
upon a vibrant, living, rounded, moving place.

No, Earth, she don't want to be flat.

Full bodied, free flowing, seductress, she
scoffs at such mind conceited, power hungry, insincerity;

exposing our cracks in her restless slumber.

Coming out of the mouth
of star studded glitter

Human remains
Spilling all over the stage
Amongst jeers of Laughter
How funny

Only a Noble  purpose
Could add to the wealth
Of this Incredulous Show Stopper

Ministry at its finest.
Gloriously ended
Call for Love

"You all come back now!!"
WORD!

With Easter approaching it made me think of a little girl I used to babysit
Her father was one of the Russian hockey players here in Detroit
I'm not really sure of what they believed about God
but they didn't attend church at that time.

While her father was away, playing hockey in Germany
due to a lock out in the NHL
and her mother was out of town,
I found myself alone with her on Easter weekend.
I knew I wanted to attend services, so just before bed one night
I approached the subject of God with her.

She was young, probably 7 or 8 at the time,
so initially she was afraid.
I think she said something like if God came to her front door
she would get her Dad & he wouldn't let him in.
Her Dad was a fairly robust defensemen, so God would surely
no better than to mess with him lol.
I went on to explain as best as I could that God was her friend.
Of course we also discussed how we can't see him
and what Heaven is,
and who knows what really went through that pretty little head of hers,
but she did listen intently.

We went to church, I was able to even get her in a dress,
a true miracle in itself as she was quite the tomboy back then,
She didn't say a great deal, and no doubt at such a young age
she had little if any real understanding,
But now she is a young woman,
a believer in Christ, living an amazing life,
an encourager,
strong like her father,
and I can't help but hope a little
that those tiny seeds I planted so many years ago
may have helped shape her into the person she is today.

A few years back she shared with me on facebook
a little poem I had given her before they moved out of state.
The poem was worn & tattered
but to know that she had held onto it after some 15 years
is one of the greatest gifts she could have ever given me.
I may never have children of my own,
Not always an easy thing to accept,
But I do thank God for the time I was given
in helping to raise such a beautiful girl.

The days of  sweet
your face shining
the smile, the origin of happiness
that was more.. to see your plain skin.

7,8,9, ten days passed
I've run past the corridors of school
to find your trace.
At times I see
a pair of sandals tripping to the van.
At times I see
a pair of hands  crossed in his.

Still I run everyday
Hoping you would give me a gaze
the one you had in our beautiful days
dear
still I run..

The sky is the color you see when you close your eyes. Not quite black, just dark. It was nice, the way you looked at me when I was calm. How your smile caressed your eyes, your shoulders seemed to relax. The flowers I planted never grew; they must've been too weak, consumed by the earth. I watch happy people and realize how shallow they are. They space out and talk about their favorite tv shows and worry about stains on their shirts. My fingers are strangely shaped: they curve in and out, thinner than normal. But somehow they fit perfectly with yours, straight and perfect, always oil-stained and callused. I remember when I draped my arm across your chest and felt the scars on your shoulder. How they were arranged in such a familiar pattern. I traced them so carefully and read the word 'fear'. I wish I didn't write about you. I wish I didn't write at all. I know the smell of my mother's perfume. It reminds me of the times she came home and I ran to her after hours of waiting restlessly. Now it chokes me and creates a lump in my throat, tears in my eyes. No one's voice could ever fade in the background yet be heard so clearly except yours; a piano ballade in a distant room. We spend so much time trying not to take things for granted that we end up taking things for granted, for granted. "I ruined the flower you gave me. I didn't mean to," you said to me. It's been three years, and I feel like the flower.

Today I have to crawl back in,
To indulge again in skin, slimy, loose,
Wrinkled saggy skin.
I could lift it in great handfuls,
Feel the muscles, the blood, the everything,
The clammy coldness beneath my fingers.
It makes me sick to the mind;
I want to crawl back out again and run
But there is nothing left to run on, to run to,
Only something uglier than this.
I want to claw it off, the itching in my arms. Scratching,
Scratching at raw flesh, raw muscle,
Exposed veins, all stuck beneath my fingernails.
It is disgusting.
It is inconsequential.
It’s skin.