When we went to church
my grandma used to say
"Pray for the one next to you,
ask for his prayers to come true"

"But, grandma" I once asked her
"Why can't we ask for things for ourselves?"

"Because that's what prayer should be,"
she answered graciously
"ask for the safety of others,
for them to get home safe,
for them to never be hungry,
ask for God to love all of his children.

We can get by,
but you never know if others can too."

its dark and muddy
I’ve always liked the sun
its dark and muddy
unforgiving weather
Each step however difficult is a tribute to you
you’re always in the corners of each room
not an afterthought, but often mentioned at the end
I fear the end
I envy those who take solace in echoing rooms of stained glass
I envy their lord
while I try to remember you
they try to summon strength
they succeed, I do not

this is what comes next,
we have learned
to wait for
this.

The choir concludes the service

We are eyes closed, air drawn to hands raised.

They sing because they happy

back in church

With bodies

always with bodies

Someone is screaming, tongue defying hymn

And yes, how far away we are

I miss him too.

His voice always singing familiar

haunts trumpet blaring

Sunday mornings.

Dark eyes and skin, wide smile, no teeth.

Fearless at 5 singing gospels with no concept of holding tight to strength in the lyrics. My ancestors and their ancestors. Am I listening?

I lose myself in years. I am not

Singing anymore. These chords have twisted themselves into the back of songs, I am

Writing, not singing or speaking.

Cottonmouth. I am sitting staunch against pews, leaning into worn piano keys. Foundation stains, and eyes watching, chestnut brown like mine. G in the key that breaks into silence. I hear a hymn being hummed, bacon cooked and waiting.

Memory tells me it is time to open my mouth

I sing 'cause I’m free.

I basked in the joy of the chord
In the vibrations of the perfection
Of harmonies that reverberated to my core
That sang deep to my soul

Those notes were familiar
The dynamics lowered and lifted
Me through the air in the lofted church
Ceiling and stained glass reflections

As my daughter sang from the mass of robes
I remembered singing from that same stage
On that same white marble stage where
I stood with my mom so many years ago

A smile and a tear leapt up from my heart
As I remember those chords with my mom
So happy she was to be looking down
At her granddaughter singing so sweet

Her red lips like the roses of a cracking stained glass window
When she leaned in to whisper her secret
The words falling from them like demons through a gate
Into a crumbling church

Into my ear

I had sat in those pews
With zealous eyes and thoughts upon those lip-red roses
But one by one her demons came like whispers
And cracked the red stained window like a breaking heart

I've put you to sleep with a song,
And you sleep like a rarity,
Lying deep in a treasure chest,
Veiled by the lure of ample gold.

And my lullaby continues,
Yes, much like a prayer it does,
In a mellow light pouring in,
From the stained glass that your church boasts.

But as my voice grows fragile,
This lullaby might go quiet;
Insnity might condemn me,
To deem you dead, to deem love gone.

And thus, I must wait and see,
If you'd remember what I said,
"Lest I should ever think love dead,
Wake up and say, 'It's not, it's not'."

on the eve of our creation.. we are to notify and observe the makers..  in route in the night sky we view the creator below..  
in their mega cities.. in their modest homes..  how the creator lived before they were the creator..  

on acts of creation they are abound unknownly..


the creators have made themselves without knowing what they are..
and always they arrive at a point where they conceive us..  

the creators allow us to view them in their worse state of living..  where war is still livid in their life away from being the creators..

where the creators live and die..

until they learn there is no dying..

only creation..

the creators allow us to watch us being created.. they allow the moment to us.. where we were made. when we were made.. the idea.  the answer.  the creation.. its who we are because of the creators..

mass has ended....

religion is comfort
to some
religion is kind
to some

religion is pain
to some
religion is rude
to some

religion is uncomfortable
to me
religion is saddening
to me

to be in a church
with people i don't and never will know
a recital, a show
'not religious' they say

and yet the elegant white arches
and the soft red velvet
and the books, so many books
they could be used to educate

and yet the riches of this church
are used for the rich already
and not for the kids
the kids who want to learn
not pray
the kids who want to leave
not stay
i just want to learn piano,
i say

no, 'its not religious'
they always say
if its 'not religious'
then why won't you let me walk away

my own importance is swallowed like a pill,
by the resonance of his voice,
vocabulary ****** dry and replaced with a sheen of the need to
stay so unbearably quiet.

i always want to waltz in open spaces,
feel the air rushing past my arms as i spin,
but walking into a house so white and so cold,
i feel like i have ignored the welcome mat at the door.

it's his alleged presence,
or maybe it's just my own scepticism acquiring the patina of caution.
i walk with soft slow steps as if not to wake the dead in the garden,
cut short the swirl of my movements,
replace air vents in cartilage joints with rocks or plaster.
am i even supposed to feel like a person in my own right?

i wish someone would drop a pin for me to assess the quiet,
but there is a soft small current of people feeling at home,
or the quiet and the cautious mixing in like a cavity in a set of white teeth.

when i step back out into the sun,
my lungs grow fuller with oxygen, the leaves appear greener and the sky is more vibrant.
i do not feel his eyes on me as much; or the weight of being contained.
perhaps he just wanted me to go home.