The big story of this day is Jesus’ Resurrection from death.
It will be celebrated in homes and churches throughout the world.
But I think Jesus is more interested in us than us celebrating him.
He wants us to recognize
and celebrate the way we rise
from our darkness, and digressions
failures, weakness, sadness and depression.

When Jesus was on Earth he was honest.  He was himself.
That’s what got him in trouble.
He teaches me to subdue the anger and every hint of violence inside
to be true to the unique creature his Father has crafted
not special or above the rest of ordinary men
just different and true to my own voice.

Unlike Jesus, I am not that courageous and mighty with the power of love.
I still fantasize doing damage to those whom I deem evil
still I care too much about what others think
about how I look or sound in public.

I am unlike Jesus in too many ways,
but I am like him in my rising from darkness and doom
from my own self-made tomb.
My resurrections might be tiny
but large is the Spirit in me
and the ability to see
the light
to see the right
and pursue it wherever it leads
into meadows and into the weeds
away from tradition and my roots
beyond my past moorings
toward truth
and its small soarings
telling my little stories
from death to glory.

You are hidden
in the back of my brain and repressed
in an attempt to be forgotten.
Only to be remembered
when triggered by a touch or voice.

You rise from the shadows,
making yourself known,
conquering all my other memories,
pushing everything aside.

You dominate my head,
I applaud you for your assertiveness,
always winning the battle,
King of my mind,
until you are lost
no more.

Broken
Shattered
Torn
Used
Beaten
*****

Dead
Alone
Gone

Ripped from this world
By the creators of evil

Done
Over

Risen from the ashes
Alive, reborn into an angel from hell
Soaring above
Conquer

c.m.l.

it’s an undercurrent
simmering below the simple gestures
stares that linger a bit too long
touches with no apparent reason
odd questions just to hear my voice
i feel it.
the undercurrent of your attention
slow yet there
small but rising
i’m not stupid.
i know it’s nothing.
the undercurrent is scented with doubt.
as always.
doubt, curiosity, estrangement
just a simple **** on my shoulder.
it may wash away or it may grow.
i don’t know if it will overflow.

i won’t wait for years.
(but i will keep my eyes on you)

I remember the naivety
It was like swimming in an ocean

The waves prelapsing onto my skin
Freezing cold
But I stayed.

I stayed in the water allowing my to nerves scream
Screaming for warmth.
Yet my body filled with lust told me to stay.
It began to become warmer
So I stayed in longer.
I had hoped it would fill the vulnerable space I had open.

I let it fill me with salty cold water.

The skin on my fingers and toes began to fold.
Whispering upon the folds worriedly
'Enough'.
I resisted
'ENOUGH' the folds screamed.

My legs begin to move towards the oceans shore.
The water droplets trickle down slowly but surely
My face,
My lips,
My body,
Now exposed to what used to be welcoming air.

The air now filled with angry wind, whips my body,
Harshly shouting 'Why, o why?'
'Why have you given your body to the ocean?'
My lips, unable to move shiver against the wind's whips.

'Guide me back' my hair says trembling with mercy, damp of water.

The wind's whips weaken.
'Follow the path',
'Follow the path of rightousness'

The wind forgivingly breathes into my lungs
Gasping, finally giving me the warmth and sweet taste of air