a free gift
undeserved
like a child's
joyful laughter

If God were to say, "Dear, would be my pleasure
to grant your heart's desire within reason"

I wouldn't hesitate, I wouldn't give a second thought to my decision

And I would hope God wouldn't think I was asking too much or being selfish, when I ask for this unique gift

A gift of speech, of words, of understanding of all languages, a gift coveted by interpreters, scribes and poets alike

In my imagination there is no better gift, than a gift of understanding of all languages, every spoken tongue

O' to have a special gift, an exceptional ability to communicate verbally  with any individual alive, and animals, too

Would I find this overwhelming, or would this just be way too cool?

Whenever I cry, a part of me rejoices;
A fragment which knows that to feel,
Keeps me grounded, makes things real,
And loves all my inner voices.

When I cry it is openly and proudly,
Though not in search for sympathy,
Or in hopes someone will comfort me,
And certainly never loudly.

When I cry it is for me, and me alone,
I have lost the gift of weeping once before,
And- having missed it- know that there is more,
To grieve once it has gone.

I've been told to make her fall in love
It would require much laughter
Yet each time she laughs
It is me who falls
Through our journey
Pain will ensue
But our strength
And courage
Can take on anything
Thrown our way
See, I promised I'd reach
The part of her
That's she swore
She wouldn't give to anyone.

The curse of eternal life
Would be, watching
Every one you love, die

...and she felt like
Her bones were buried
In her body
Unapologetically
Apathetic

She had eaten eons,
Watched the ends
Of millions of clocks’ lifetimes
Snorted the rust of their
Idle hands, dead still
In the blank stare
Of their concentric silence

She wanted to cease
This void existence,
For boredom was
Her ultimate torture

I wrote her a poem
She won't like it
I tore it--
Its out of whack

I did her portrait with ink
She won't like it
I squeezed it--
Its not her skin color, its black

I plucked her some flower
She won't like it
I dropped it--
Its not rose, its lilac

I made her a pendant
She won't like it
I broke it--
Its not gold, its brass plaque

I'm at her door with no gift
She won't like it
But I love her
To the moon and back

I move from the visible that expands heart-
a warm breeze, the sunrise, shooting stars
a babies laugh, and a good cry.

I move to the invisible that gives comfort-
my guides that assist, ancestors that support
and angels that fly with endless unconditional love.
To alien beings that wish to remind me we are sacred.

I move from the visible to invisible and back to  visible with love, with gratitude knowing I am a gift.

StarBG © 2017