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md-writer Mar 2021
Up on Grandma's kitchen shelf,
a temptation crocked and lidded
her cookie jar, it beckons me,
well-worn, once-cracked, now-mended -
not with mud new-daubed,
but gold
in every crack

it gleams;

but that is not the treasure
that has seized my heart.

Nay. The treasure is inside.

One time only did I reach within,
one time many-scolded.

"Not for you," she muttered,
gummy, toothless, ancient hag;
"Not for you," she growled.

"Not for any fingers seeking just to
fill their ******* mouths."

And I wondered as she said it,
as I've wondered always since,
at the force and heart within her words,
for the cookie jar was spent.

Empty. Not a crumb inside
- I felt it all around -
empty, all the cookies gone,
to places I had never trod
- in waking hours at least.

Empty - not a crumb inside, but...
...something brushed by me.
Warm and soft and...
like an angel's kiss, or wing;
the golden glitter of a teardrop as it
hangs in sunlit dream.

That - that feeling
is what brushed against me
(wrist-deep and guilty) in my
Grandma's cookie jar.

She bound the jar with leather
and shelved it up much higher,
and scolded me from morning until night.
But heart aflame and
eye caught in wonder,
the magic had bound me up

I dared not take it down again,
I dared not wrest it's slumber
with another groping, clumsy
but my eye and heart were on it
and as years passed,
hunger grew.


When Grandma died - a miracle,
considering her spells -
at last I dared to keep the jar,
up on my own cook-shelf.
And slowly I unbound it,
leather strap by leather strap,
as the days turned into winter
and the star-symphony danced.

Three years it took to free that
(her spells had hardened
by some brew brought on by
and when it sat untarnished, free,
once more the gold
did glew.

Humble earthen vessel, uplifted
by destruction
and the searing introduction of a molten,
fiery grace:
a simple cookie jar it was,
(this I knew)
and empty as a floor too-swept and clean.

Yet still I longed to feel the
brush of life once more,
glimmering like a secret in
the depth of that fair jar.

So I dipped one little finger in,
crossed the plane marked by it's mouth,
and waited for the magic of
the past.

It came near by gradual nibbles, a skitter-fly
to be acknowledged, so it seemed;
but gradually one finger became two,
two three,
and three a hand.

Skitter-fly no longer, the golden pulse
it surged,
stronger by a hundred-fold
than ever I felt before;
and coiled betwixt my fingers
like a honey-snake
and warm.

I knew it then, the cookie jar,
and the cookie jar knew me.

Desire birthed and twirling,
fostered long, but now set free.

I sighed and let the crocken lid
fall back down in its place,
plunged once more the jar in black, and
emptied now for me, it sat
up on my cook-*** stack,
and winked no more
- no more for me.

After that I set a rule up,
for small-kin in my home,
that the cookie jar was sacred,
as it was in Grandma's time.
And any hand that snatched from it,
would turn-about be smacked.


And then I sat and waited
for a grubby little hand,
to reach down into empty space
and spark again
the gloam.
md-writer May 2020
I think sometimes that I want to live in a world that is full of fantastic wonders, where beauty hits you over the head with the full force of its pure extravagance and needless perfection.

And then I remember that that is the world I live in. Fantasy isn't something fundamentally alien, but reminds us of what is fundamentally wonderful about our world.

I do not see it because my eyes are half-closed. But sometimes it screams in bold letters, and reminds me that if I were to look I would see the same wonders everywhere.
md-writer May 2020
all the ordinary people,
with their ordinary tears,
ordinary sorrows, and ordinary

all the ordinary children,
mothers, fathers, sweethearts,
all the ordinary friends of all our
ordinary peers

every ordinary moment of our
ordinary lives
is a well-encrypted shadow
hanging over truth with

is the devil's myth,
that sweet, unpolished lie;
it makes an ordinary person only seek
a little prize.

But a cumulative series of ordinary days,
adds up to a lifetime of
extraordinary praise -

but only if we see the wonder
peeking through the walls,
shining like a lantern
that is covered up and dulled,
but visible, if eyes we use
as they were meant to be.

Ordinary, true.
But with them we can see beyond
the facts of me and you.
md-writer May 2020
I was told that love is painful,
that there is terror of a certain kind
in being known.
But I've left that voice behind me,
now that love has soothed my fears;
that voice?

it was my own
md-writer Mar 2020
wordstorm pouring from my bleeding lips -
an infant's scream for sustenance rising soft
above the sound of battle, the shrieks of devils and war.
ravens mock, their harshest rasping calculated
to pierce the heart of all the wounded,
bleeding out into the pits of shattered planet earth;
mud and rats and infestations of the most severe order,
without respite...

this is my battlefield within;

laughing is a sorry antidote to crime and sorrow;
joy is bared to bones before the shadow of a thousand failing suns, it laughs despite the pain;
you say that love, the most supreme of all affections, cannot be touched by misery.


go back to the

shadow of god

where you lurk, a curse to be unleashed; raving at your chains

This is no monologue. It is an address. It is not the raving of a madman - just the scribbles of a fool who seeks to grab the heart and soul of men with words:
complicated patterns sparking complicated thoughts sparking every **** achievement of our broken, bleeding
our downfall and our towering symphony of

words attest the fabric of the world we create,
undead they speak with voices heard in silence and propel
the mind to visionary things;
or to the pits of hell.

Either way they give our mortal bodies wings.

We cannot fly too far, too high, with these;
life and death and all the shades of
heaven and hell between - that's where words can take us

if we let them

don't you see?

So listen. Write one more time. I speak the struggle of living flesh, and you hear the mournful infant's cry.
It is your soul raising living sorrow above the sound of busy anguish. It seeps through every waking moment of this dream.
So feed the baby, misbegotten mortal. Feed the ******* lips of your own soul.

One Word can stop its cry forever.
md-writer Nov 2019
infant son of lust and power,
union of a king uncrowned
and wife of Gentile warrior -
I shall bear the burden of my
grieving father's sin

the prophet spoke, my fate is sealed
the sickness set upon me
- this terrible privilege of atonement -
will consume my
tiny life
and I will die

but my father?
he shall live

and from his ***** my brother
shall come forth
that other Son in whose shadow
I shall stake my
checkered hidden place

Solomon first,
and later, when the sun
bursts forth,
our mutual fulfilment:

Christ the Lord
md-writer Nov 2019
nothing quite so terrible
as a man
who thinks himself free
when he is not

no terror quite so piercing
as a whisper
when he thinks himself

so different, these two
yet they both are filled with lies
there is a fatal weakness
in our mortal failing

we do not see the truth
of things - not one thing
breaks the dark
But when Jesus Christ the righteous comes
His Spirit lights our heart
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