"scuff" poems
Have a little slice of key lime pie; get down on your knees and get real high,
'cause mamma’s gone and cut you a slice of key lime pie!
Spank step, toe hop, cramp-shuffle, paddle and roll;
Mamma’s gone and cut you a slice of key lime pie.
Dig deep, riff-walk, clunk-click, scuff those feet;
Mamma’s gone and cut you a slice of key lime pie!
Soft shoe or metal tap on the heel or toe, get your shoes on honey here we go!
Tastes so good, tastes so neat,
it’s a sweet and salty treat!
'cause mamma’s gone and cut you a slice of key lime pie!
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 8:02 AM UTC
The bloom of the cut rose
leaks into the water glass.
She fixes breakfast.
I sit thereabouts waiting.
I trouble my coffee with a spoon.
Her slippers scuff softly on the floor.
Her dreaming slowly leaves her eyes.
I rub my homely morning face.
The finger of a tree taps the glass.
It will not be admitted
with the pale, newborn light.
The world already goes its way.
It minds if we are slow to follow.
The street grumbles at my well-used robe.
Matins bells predict a running out.
We keep our peace
longer than we should.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 8:50 AM UTC
i.
Mine Dame
Unfasten mine cream pigment barong;
Scuff the tiny button's, serenadeth me with Tagalog.
ii.
None need for baon
Where we shalt go is not strained by materialism;
This is not a place of Balaam.
iii.
Mother-naked, ourn quiddity's latched
None leviathan demonic's, no human electronic's;
Mine darling, hug closely, none murrain pain's to be hatched.
iv.
Mine foremost, drinketh with me
Amour's Buko juice as a toast;
A barkada of high-up angelic's to guide ourn ghost's.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication/Filipino rose
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 7:44 PM UTC
if i could measure myself by your terms,
i would become that feeble pile of gray dust
you sweep under your rug,
or blow off of the dashboard of your shiny blue car.
i could be that lonely scuff mark on your shiny white shoes,
new and barely broken in.
new and barely broken in, like that heart
perfectly beating in your perfectly toned chest.
when did it become so easy
to trim my value into useless puzzle pieces
trying tirelessly but aimlessly
to fit into those tiny awkward spaces we create.
i spent the last few years of my life,
attempting to escape comfort, fearful
of it's promise--like loathing the end of the night,
i have run fast into the moonlight,
hid beneath my covers, shaking, screaming
JUST ONE MORE HOUR.
it can not be over.
you can not be leaving me now,
can you?
while i am swelling up with tears,
and need to be felt, so deeply now
beneath your skin? i pick and scratch
at your freckles, but you are cute and made
of wrought-iron dimpled blonde steel,
and i, too weak, too worthless,
too useless, to bend you into
pretty loving shapes.
how can i fear the end now, that is it finally
seemingly eternally here. where do we go
now? how can i rest, abandoned, leaking
words, dripping
thoughts into a bucket that,
at any moment
can
spill.
this is goodbye.
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
by Danny Smith
The old man rises from his chair
gently cursing the ache that crept into his bones
when he wasn't looking
His slippered feet scuff the carpet
making a journey they know without him
to the window
He watches down on the cars
as they flash through the rain on an urgent journey
somewhere
Leaning forward to rest his forehead
on the cool damp pane that shields him from it all
his prison wall
The cars seem to softly merge
as fragments like a broken mirror
tease and torment
A lifetime of dreams and tomorrows
that somehow became painful yesterdays
much too fast
Squeezing his eyes tightly closed
he remembers her face and the soft scar on her cheek
a perfect imperfection
The laughter and cries of children
running to him with chocolate smeared mouths
grown now, gone now
All of them to different worlds
ones where he was afraid to travel to
out there
Plenty of time to make it through
but the nights seem to skip the sunshine days
sentenced
he shuffles back to the chair
lowering himself with limbs that can't be his
removes his slippers
Reaches for the polished shoes
years old but hardly worn and still uncreased
laces them
Moves slowly through the house
turning of lights, collecting a wallet
a pack of cigarettes, a photograph
pocketing them
The old man stands at the open door
just a fragment of someone elses memory, as he walks
into the rain
©Danny Smith
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 2:01 PM UTC
And when I die,
surely from sin and dirt and living-
Do not bury me in white.
Do not brush my hair and paint my nails.
Do not shine my heels and iron my dress.
Do not speak of me so bittersweetly.
Bury me in lingerie with frayed lace.
Muss my hair and smear my lipstick.
Scuff my boots and rip my tights.
Speak of me with thinly-veiled vehemence.
Do not love me,
when I am dead.
For none did during life,
other than in the glow of a t.v.
that only played to hide the moans.
Do not bury an imposter
and spin tales of a sweet ******
who died too soon.
Bury a *****
and rage that you were not the one
to finally silence her.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
The scuff of sneakers, boots and flats form the solid and stable beat.
Add in the chuckles, silences and brief interruptions to create the varying and rhythm.
All that remains is what goes unsaid but is speeding around in your mind.
That man from Uzbekistan,
He was telling us how peace and non-violence starts with us,
With middle-schools, with teens, with future leaders
To all those who laugh, when I say violence is never the answer,
You're the ones I worry about
That man from Uzbekistan,
He was speaking to us about how the kids had a parliament in Uzbekistan
Those kids had a say in what their fate would be
Believe it or not,
But adults are not the only things to make up our society...
Infants, toddlers, 5th graders, 8th graders, 11th graders, seniors, the diseases make up us, us..
So maybe parents shelter us too much, or not at all.
And kids throw fits in the grocery store
While teenagers attempt to jump off the nearest bridge
This is our society..
But we're like those kids in Uzbekistan
We have a say in what our fate will be
That man from Uzbekistan,
He was sharing out how blessed he was to be living here in the United States
Even though he could live in a much more peaceful and welcoming society.
I have no idea how many years i will be,
Or what has to happen before we get the message across..
That's what's played out isn't acceptable
The American people,
Were baffled, devastated, overwhelmed
That all those stereotypes really were mixed within us.
Obama stood up in that room
With a shaky camera man, staring while he slumped and grieved
He addressed our nation,
Homeland,
Country
Community
Family
About Newtown,
Clackamas Town Center
No leader should ever be forced to speak about children dying long before there time was up
Or about average people ducking and diving from bullets
Gun Control is only a little layer
And that's the start of our restoration to end up being a peaceful, safe country
It begins with how youth are shown how to solve problems.
I'm willing to reach my hand out to every single state in this country
And if that means devoting everything I've got to making our restoration successful,
Then so be it..
No leader or person should be raising candles to the sky for little kids to see that they are missed.
And I took all of this in at a Lebanese Luncheon
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 11:58 PM UTC
As I walk down these streets, I'm smiling
the streets aren't slippery,
they aren't riddled with puddles,
the sky sits like a blanket,
just resting on the top of the city
As I draw in a deep breath
of cold, crisp air
I'm slapped in the face
as it all comes crashing back
with every click clack and scuff of my shoes on the street top
it's as though my feet aren't mine
they walk, and I have no say
in where they go
or how fast they move,
or where they stop
I know they think they're going to the market
I know they think they'll walk the isles
and I know they think they'll carry me to the checkout
but unfortunately I know
that although they are amazing feet
and they've gotten me where I am today
they will not pay the bill at the grocery store
and their full time job as my carriers
leaves no precious time for moonlighting
so it's been left up to my soul
it's will to survive is much stronger than the feet
it knows that though I've done somethings
somethings that hurt too much to allow them to turn into memories in my mind
that scar, and brand and torment the soul
injury after self inflicted injury
that us two, we belong together
that even though I may have sold you,
dear soul
to someone else
for just enough money to pay the checkout clerk
to fill my stomach, if only for one day
to feed my demons, and steady my crutch
you forgive me, for my survival is yours
you know this pain I feel, for it's your pain too
so when, dear soul
tomorrow comes, and I always wake up,
with that brief moment just before I allow my eyes to open
where it's like staring at the sky, walking to the beat
of my feet click clacking down the street
as I feel the crisp air move into and fill my lungs
and escape quickly a little warmer
when nothing else in the world is in my mind
you are there.
Dec 4, 2010
Dec 4, 2010 at 6:47 PM UTC
Boys are weird!
Us girls will never understand them.
They scuff their knees up and walk out the house with tousled hair,
Can they ever think before they do?
They swing, climb, run, and jump on everything!
Just stay still.
Boys will be boys,
With dirt on their faces and cuts on their fingers.
They stick gum in girl's hair,
Carry slimy frogs in their pockets.
Their appetite is atrocious,
Are they gentlemen deep down?
Boy's language is all washed up,
They'll call you hot instead of beautiful.
They're full of burps and hung up on videogames,
Wrestling in the house every second.
Do they have a nice side?
Dads will keep a good eye on them,
Making sure they're good for their daughters.
Boys never stay like this,
They grow up to eventually become a man.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
Rattle the cassette
with the biro etched “Car Mix”
grab the keys from mum’s bag
“Fill up what you use!”
“…Ok, can I have a fiver then?”
scuff to the car in unsuitable boots
slump in, adjust mirror, checking stupid fringe
which then existed
snap in the tape so the first bars
of G-Funk, grunge or B*Witched pulse
then it’s off to pick up
shotgun
Nov 20, 2021
Nov 20, 2021 at 4:18 AM UTC
A wise man once told me that all people are like precious metals.
He told me this in different words than I will use, but I took this to heart.
We are mined from ***** places; these miners see the value that lies beneath our harsh surface.
We are plucked from our resting places, sent to great, large cities where we will be put over fire to burn out our impurities.
We will go through pain and fire.
We will melt and be tortured.
We will cry and scream and we will suffer.
All of our repulsive imperfections will float to the top while this is happening.
To purify gold, it must be melted.
To purify silver, it must be melted.
It must be melted and the rough **** that exists within and without these bits of precious metal must float to the top to be extracted.
Sometimes, this process must happen multiple times.
Sometimes, we must use chemicals and medicines to make sure it happens properly.
To purify us, we must be melted.
These are our trials in life.
This fire represents our hardships.
This fire represents every life change that we don't want to happen, but must pull through.
This fire represents each truth that we don’t want to know, but have to accept.
This fire represents each person that walks in and out of our lives like rainstorms, pouring for hours and moments before disappearing on the wind, never to be seen again.
This fire represents each night we must spend alone, crying for someone to save us.
This fire is us.
This fire is self-preservation.
This fire doesn't last.
And after the fire is over, and our imperfections are drawn away from us, we are perfect.
Of course no one is ever perfect, but no metal is ever completely perfect; everything that glitters is not gold.
After the fire has died, and we have been poured into new molds, into new people, we are stronger.
With our disfigurements gone, our molecules bond tighter to form a stronger metal.
With our faults gone, we sparkle and shine for the world to see.
After we have been pulled from the ground, after the fire has died, after we have come out as stronger, prettier people, there is still a chance for staining.
We may scuff and stain, we may grow new impurities, but then we must suffer fire again.
It is an ongoing process.
We are never perfected.
We are ever changing, yet we are solid as metal.
A wise man once told me that I resembled gold, that everyone around me resembled gold. He once explained this to me in such a way that it changed my mind about hardship.
I now meet it with open arms.
If I couldn’t handle the fire, it wouldn’t burn for me.
A wise man once told me that eventually, when the fire was extinguished, I would be a stronger person.
A wise man once explained to me that I am not alone, that everyone must hurt to get stronger, and that I will emerge from the fire.
This man changed my life, and I hope that maybe I can change someone else’s life.
That maybe I can help scrape the imperfections from someone’s boiling surface.
That maybe I can help myself become purer, by purifying some other gold or silver.
After all, at the end of the day, a wise man once told me we are all like precious metals:
We are all gold.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
-
it's winter again and here we are, the same loop that caught me up in
your whirlwind last time now making home between your lungs as your head
rests against my shoulder and your face finds a place to nuzzle against my neck.
i wonder what's different as i watch your hand reach for mine and then i realize it's because
i learned to grow without you and grew without you from one long moon to the other.
-
when i called you a sunbird, i didn't mean a phoenix,
even though i didn't know it then.
see, it's been an entire year and i've learned how to create and swallow flames whole and stomp on
the ashes and even though i'd scattered yours and wished for you to rise
from them before, now i wish i'd dug my heels in a little better and cast them all aside
for good, buried you too far that you wouldn't be able to find me again, dosed and
dosed and dosed until there was nothing left of the scuff-mark under an ocean.
-
maybe i'm just bitter.
and some part of me loves it. it's a vicious part, who's still searching for that other half
and knowing now that it was never in your hands and even if it was, it's been passed off
and i won't find it with you.
great tragedies are written for stages of life, not the makeup of entire stories, and
i'm not about repetition. you already got your chapter.
-
there will be days that i start purely about me and that will end purely about me.
regardless of anything, i vow now, that i will make sure of this.
i will find (an)other boy(s) to sleep beside, just sleep beside, and i will love it and you will
hate it and i will love them. i'll be looking at them like i looked at you and you
will look at your phone each time it buzzes and hope it's me and
i won't even think to text you.
i will be selfish, ****** and karma encourages and assures me so.
-
i was willing to wait eternities.
i was willing to wade lava and tread air and hold my breath until you wanted but you chose to
snip the string that held me to your wrist and now i've found freedom in the sky and i feel
broken and torn and incomplete but infinite and i found all of this without you.
you're too impatient, and you keep wanting to 'prove to' me something you and i both know
doesn't exist. only children get mad for getting back what they'd already given out-
and i'm sorry that i'm not for not wanting to be with you.
-
i wish you didn't love me now.
-
i wish it wasn't so easy not to care.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 2:51 AM UTC
The heater still rattles
With the bobby pin I dropped in there while kissing you
And every time I hear it, it creates a new beat
A stronger one
A louder one
A beat that yells to me "You'll never forget him"
The heater seems to produce the smell of your cologne
During late nights when I miss you
The smell that made my stomach flop
The smell that still peppered my skin once you left
A smell that shouts "You still love him"
The heater still has a dent
From all the times we sat on it
And that causes the air to blow into my face
And dry my tears late at night
Just like you did
Tears that howl "He was-no scratch that-IS perfect"
The heater still has a scuff on it
From the morning you threw your she at it because it stopped working
And it produced warmer air after that
Almost as warm as you
Before you left
Now the air is cold
A cold that screeches "He was your everything"
And the heater still has your jacket on it
Because I can't bear to move it
And in the early mornings I put it on
And drink a cup of coffee
Like I did with you
By the heater
A heater that screams "Maybe he still loves you"
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 9:42 AM UTC
Fluorescent flickers illuminate the stained cement floors of the hallway. Your slippered feet music an uneven pad and scuff. This ***** city is home, whatever that means. This ***** city holds you like you're someone else's child. A burst of joy and music reaches for you through the window; someone bangs a door and you turn on the tap. As water sputters onto your toothbrush you catch a whiff of Dakota Jim's racist southern drawl, a puff of his ketamine breath.
You walk to the window, toothbrush dangling.
[Oh London, I know you love no one, but nights like this I feel your heartbeat in your embrace.]
History swells beneath your feet. Your eyes land on a seated figure, his grand headdress of feathers overpowering the tableau, his gaze calmer than the other mad happy swirls that make up the crowd. It makes you wonder what he sees. Probably nothing. You will learn that when he seems profound it is usually an accident. You are penned in by jagged skyline hieroglyphics. History swells. Your heavy hearted story is a speck consumed in all this history. All the history you were taught in school was death, you remember your mother bemoaning this war generals and battle dates history. You wonder at how much death this place has seen, how many lives the city has birthed and eaten, hungry mother staving off starvation.
We all write our stories on other people's bones. Of course the greatest cities would leave the greatest scars. And what did you come here looking for anyway?
[Hello Momento Mori city. I see you. I see your rooftops straining to **** stars. Do you mourn for your dead? Are they heavy in your belly? Are you going to eat me, too?]
But now, if you drag your little mind back from the immensities, everything around you is alive. Everyone is dancing, happy to be caught in her belly. Or her womb. Not one of you knows which, but there you are. In the courtyard, the small, steady figure of Freddie Stitz brings a lit cigarette to his lips and smiles up at you in the window.
Wipe that toothpaste off your face, you look ridiculous. Go back to bed.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 4:57 PM UTC
.wet as
long-sound
footsteps on the scuff of downturned sidewalks
estranging.
distance
.from us
as wrought iron bridges
meeken,
aching.
like a saxophone
.the
pin-patter
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 9:03 AM UTC
Sitting a corner booth by herself,
sipping on a Long Island Iced Tea
and reading Keats.
Hands down, she's the most
captivating person in this bar.
Fingertips calloused, and hands nicked and scraped
like she'd been in a fight with experience
and went down swinging.
Eased into her seat like slipping naked into a hot bath.
Smiled with all her teeth
like no one was looking.
Left her phone at home,
in pieces on the kitchen floor.
Tonight was the night she was going to forget all about the custody battle
the bill collectors
the late night fights about who was right
and who was left in the room with all this shattered glass to clean up
the long sobbing nights with her pillow and her secret shame
the regret for time poorly spent looking for love in bars and cold blue eyes
the years that separated her from twenty-two – when she was young and delusionally happy.
With her body language, she unknowingly spoke to me:
Tonight, I came to drink and dance.
Don't bother me with pick up lines.
Pick up artists, go find another canvas.
Mine's been painted over plenty.
I don't have the time to save anymore white knights from their mother's ***
That fairytale story always ends in Shakespearean tragedy.
Plus, the **** horse leaves scuff marks on the dance floor.
I take one last sip
and slip the bartender an extra twenty-
tonight the nightingale drinks for free.
I leave before she can thank me.
Jul 6, 2011
Jul 6, 2011 at 11:56 AM UTC
the night is silent
the sound of leaves rustle
along cracked pavements
you scuff your shoes on the platform
as moonlight glints
off the smooth round edges of
pebbles that are scattered along
rusting railway tracks
the wind whispers
as repetitive ringing sounds
you hear the bell signalling
the arrival of the train
the leaves once tranquil are lifted
in the thin hurricane of night breeze
and coal smoke
the train conductor reaches out
and you cautiously slip
a near faded ticket into his pinched fingers
with a simple turn of the handle
you watch your ticket shredding
and your feet step forward
into the train
inertia brings you stumbling
to the opposite side of the cabin
your hands press softly against
frostbitten windows
and your breath steams the glass
landscapes flutter by;
they are butterflies melting into the night
you run your fingers along
the battered cloth seats and tattered posters
it is cold
and the abandonment seeps into you
from the floor through the soles of your shoes
you shiver
time in the still air slows while
the scenery rushes by as the train picks up speed;
already your worries seem like history
the distance between you and reality
drags on wider but
you don't mind
as you stand in the empty train cabin
with your empty soul and empty eyes
you finally feel as if
you are safe
- - -
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC
this town is an artistic afterthought -
forgotten and almost there
and when i went walking today i looked down at my feet and i thought,
"pebbles like people."
it rains in the mornings here.
start with a gray sky and end with a gray sky,
and the rain is the most comforting thing.
it tip-taps on your shoulders like,
"i'm here too,
and i feel
what you feel."
it's an old friend.
the buildings all lean on each other -
their stone and their thatch,
their brick and their brawn.
they say,
"we know what we saw,"
and they make tiny skylines against the purple morning sky.
the streets are slick with rain,
black and worn
with the boots of wanderers like me
and the scuff of passersby like you.
they lead into secrets and roads
that i don't want to know about yet.
it rains in the morning here -
it paints our town all the oranges and pale greens of fall that you miss.
it pops the purple-gray of our stilting homes and offices,
our neat schools
(catholic is so relative, and innocence depends on how you look at it.)
it rains in the morning here -
and i can only dance when it rains.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 7:28 PM UTC
She is the pedal
they come to gaze upon
her slow dance
where she will meet the ground
the music starts this custom
filling the air with a hypnotic trance
she begins her decent
bending and twisting
the wind her choreographer
she beautifully floats
not one scuff of her feet
she has honed this skill
the stage is set
with a glow of orange lanterns
and perfect wood detail
frames her exquisite shape
as she gets closer
the instruments grow faint
in slow time lapse motion
the pedal has reached the ground
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 4:12 PM UTC
One year older
No more wiser
Aging an inevitability
Unwanted
like rain in summer
or a scuff on a new pair of shoes
A day for celebration
should be a day for mourning
black veils and chrysanthemums
a footstone for the grave
A retailers delight
for card companies and cake shops
not for halfhearted smiles
or aging discontent
For me, just another day
One year older
no more wiser
aging an inevitability
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 11:39 AM UTC
There's a crack in the floor
Whether from old age or misuse
There's a crack in the floor.
There's scuff marks where chairs have been pulled across the room
There's scratches where kitchen utensils fell
There's dirt, whether carried in from outside or a prolonged build-up of a weary mind.
There's a crack in the floor
It's in the middle of the kitchen
A novilon road map to the life of a lonely woman
Did the crack grow larger as she grew stagnant?
Did she notice the ever creeping gorge,
or the rust covered table legs?
Did she feel trapped by her own rusted legs or was she so far down the hole that she'd forgotten how to use them?
There's a crack in my floor
Not visible, not tangible
Just there...looming
There's scuff marks and scratches
There's dirt and rust
There is need for a new floor.
But how? with my feet planted firmly
Not sure whats beneath out-dated self abused easily trusting floor
It's so damaged. No one could love this floor.
But I do. i I do? Familiar and comfortable, is that love?
It's also unforgiving, not compassionate with mistakes..
That's not what I want.
If I rip it up, how long to get a new floor?
How long will it take to remove the deep settled in scars of the old?
Did it make impressions in the foundation?
If I break it out, where will it end?
I just see darkness, scared of the mysteriousness that's within the soil
What if through all this, the crack is still there?
There's a crack in the floor
Whether from old age or misuse
There's a crack in everyone's floor
some just larger than others.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 4:48 AM UTC
I know you hear me laughing
Scuff my shoes all down this street
These temperamental sulfur sidewalks
Burn as far as I can see
I was dancing, dancing for
I was dancing for you
Hoping you would notice
The searing message that I drew
Exaggerations your routine
Now I’m acting out for more
The finale can’t come in
When it’s never left the shore
I was dancing, dancing for
I was dancing for you
I know you had to let me down
Now I wish you’d let me up
My blind devoted smiles way to easy to corrupt
You should deafening predictions that never crossed my mind
This teenage charade can never end
When you’ve tucked the curtains behind
I was dancing, dancing for
I was dancing for you
Hope you’d come teach me
The moves that I already knew
Feb 5, 2010
Feb 5, 2010 at 7:33 AM UTC
we're such slaves to neon signs
silent buzzing 7-11's at 2 a.m.
dirtier inside, these nights are
a sort of yellow tint, variation;
high. But the avenues are not
grey graffiti anymore, the rocks
come alive, the city never sleeps
and the streets are all knowing
creatures that take the heat, take
the feet, throb and glide, glide
scuff, panel, catch the curb
the streets are the only ones
who love our
shadows.
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
It wasn’t many weeks ago,
When you asked what God meant to me.
You looked down from your throne,
And told me I knew nothing,
Before I even answered.
You tally your Sundays and pin them on your chest.
“Humble yourself” under a God that knows you best?
Please.
It’s easy to say you know God, and to preach, when you’re standing on an altar of
mahogany. Gingerly stepping so not to scuff, but
I can’t hear you from that altar.
I can’t hear you behind those beige walls, dripping with the shame and regret, of children
raised to believe a checklist determines their everlasting life.
They can’t hear you.
I can’t hear you.
Let me feel you.
Actions speak louder than words, and honey, you’re gonna need to speak up.
Stand on an altar of the pain we feel, of our faults and all the ways we’re not good enough.
Where is God? Is he in that golden cross hanging from your neck?
What about the crosses ropes make, tied around necks? In sunsets?
It’s a big jump to make, saying that your words come from the maker’s throat.
I hear his voice in other ways. I lay down at an altar much different than yours.
I learned more from my grandmother. Her hands, knotted like the trunk of an oak tree.
Humbly, she asked. “Please bring me home.“ She smelled of flowers, and folded her hands
in prayer, even when the knots on her knuckles grew too sore for her to sew quilts.
The preacher man on Sunday, he’s got nothing on her.
I guess this is a running list of things I should have said,
When you asked what God meant to me.
I’ve seen him from my praying knees.
Felt him in the embrace of crying lovers in hospital halls.
In life. In death.
In tear stained prayer rugs, weaved with much more than just yarn.
When you see the reflection of your Sunday’s best on that shiny mahogany stained altar,
don’t mistake that for God.
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 4:49 PM UTC