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jennifer83Poems
He came. Wielding Neosporin. & hot chocolate, Housed in a thermos, safe Temperature keeping of course. Snacks too, always Sweet. Honeybuns maybe, or a cake, itself Housed in plastic, the cellphane type. Undoubtedly he had read Somewhere that we Love sweets, they help us Thru the absence of what we really Crave. So here he came, in a Glorious naivety, an Ignorant hope. He Found me while I was distracted, busy Inhaling summertime on a Paper plate. Bland burgers, burnt hot dogs, Watered-down soda, and Soggy chips, these the Staples of a barbecue. I don't know whether it's the Charcoal or the Vitamin D, but somehow that Flimsy plate full of food is the best Thing you've Ever had, Delicious, tasting of smiles and Tan lines, Green grass and flip-flops, Fun and relaxation. As I took it in, he Approached, sidekick in tow, Of course, carrying a book, That book, the one none of us Wanted to see or touch, much less Read. I thought about running, knew I could. But, my Blissful escape on paper had been Provided by the neighborhood Church. My Mother had instilled enough Manners in me to know that in Exchange for this happy memory Inducing Food, the Least I could do was listen to his Spiel. I did listen, then I Excused myself. He, One more person Met and forgotten in moments. Except he came Back Again and again, Praying and talking With all of us, Bringing with him snacks: Honeybuns frosted with an icing that left the aftertaste of Hope, hot chocolate Accessorized with Faith marshmallows. Neosporin to Heal Scars, result of Needles and of memories. He kept coming, Wouldn't give up; probably he Couldn't. Kept trying , Trying to penetrate the Fog, we've all aquire. Fog of Protection, Fabulous fog keeping everything at a Distance, slightly Blurry, too Distorted to Hurt. To get thru that fog, to make it Dissapate, would be nothing short of a Miracle. One that he Wouldn't be able to Produce. We'd all sit Politely, listen to him, Wishing we could Hear him, Knowing we Couldn't. Because he Wasn't human to us. Too perfect, too saintly, too Godly. Unreal. The equivalent of the Mall Santa: Visible, touchable sure, but that didn't make him any more Real. Until that day, That day we talked Hair. 1 self-deprecating joke & I learned he Wanted better hair, the Patrick Dempsey kind, Thick, flowing. His Desire for that meant he was Vain, Insecure, Human. Human meant I Heard, meant the Fog was still there, but he was In it, With me, Willing to wait for it lift. He willing to wait, I willing to Hear. He came, Wielding neosporin, hot chocolate, Honeybuns. And Glorious naivety with a side of Ignorant hope, the Best kind of hope, really the Only kind. Naivety and hope. That I inhaled, like Summertime on a Paper plate.
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Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 8:30 PM UTC
The Pastor
He came. Wielding Neosporin. & hot chocolate, Housed in a thermos, safe Temperature keeping of course. Snacks too, always Sweet. Honeybuns maybe, or a cake, itself Housed in plastic, the cellphane type. Undoubtedly he had read Somewhere that we Love sweets, they help us Thru the absence of what we really Crave. So here he came, in a Glorious naivety, an Ignorant hope. He Found me while I was distracted, busy Inhaling summertime on a Paper plate. Bland burgers, burnt hot dogs, Watered-down soda, and Soggy chips, these the Staples of a barbecue. I don't know whether it's the Charcoal or the Vitamin D, but somehow that Flimsy plate full of food is the best Thing you've Ever had, Delicious, tasting of smiles and Tan lines, Green grass and flip-flops, Fun and relaxation. As I took it in, he Approached, sidekick in tow, Of course, carrying a book, That book, the one none of us Wanted to see or touch, much less Read. I thought about running, knew I could. But, my Blissful escape on paper had been Provided by the neighborhood Church. My Mother had instilled enough Manners in me to know that in Exchange for this happy memory Inducing Food, the Least I could do was listen to his Spiel. I did listen, then I Excused myself. He, One more person Met and forgotten in moments. Except he came Back Again and again, Praying and talking With all of us, Bringing with him snacks: Honeybuns frosted with an icing that left the aftertaste of Hope, hot chocolate Accessorized with Faith marshmallows. Neosporin to Heal Scars, result of Needles and of memories. He kept coming, Wouldn't give up; probably he Couldn't. Kept trying , Trying to penetrate the Fog, we've all aquire. Fog of Protection, Fabulous fog keeping everything at a Distance, slightly Blurry, too Distorted to Hurt. To get thru that fog, to make it Dissapate, would be nothing short of a Miracle. One that he Wouldn't be able to Produce. We'd all sit Politely, listen to him, Wishing we could Hear him, Knowing we Couldn't. Because he Wasn't human to us. Too perfect, too saintly, too Godly. Unreal. The equivalent of the Mall Santa: Visible, touchable sure, but that didn't make him any more Real. Until that day, That day we talked Hair. 1 self-deprecating joke & I learned he Wanted better hair, the Patrick Dempsey kind, Thick, flowing. His Desire for that meant he was Vain, Insecure, Human. Human meant I Heard, meant the Fog was still there, but he was In it, With me, Willing to wait for it lift. He willing to wait, I willing to Hear. He came, Wielding neosporin, hot chocolate, Honeybuns. And Glorious naivety with a side of Ignorant hope, the Best kind of hope, really the Only kind. Naivety and hope. That I inhaled, like Summertime on a Paper plate.
#drugs#pastor
Written by
jennifer83
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 8:30 PM UTC
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