A Toast

A parched throat makes for difficult speech… Instead of clearly communicating, you find yourself throat clearing, self jeering, eyes watering, mind wondering when this hacking will begin departing, all the while knowing that – it’s really not attractive.  You can see into souls through eye windows, the dimming glow as their response to your unintended show… It almost does not matter what you know, because like a dam, your words have lodged in your throat blocking your flow… Releasing spittle and foam at random intervals – overall damage is minimal, but the purpose in which you originally opened your mouth to complete has died all of its lives, and it’s game over – Nintendo.

But you know that it is not your fault… You needed just a bit of moisture, as some fine cuisine needs only a mere dash of salt… But without Mrs. Dash, appearance is divorced from success, like dollar signs taken off of cash… The end result being paper scraps… Tidbits, leftovers, unwanted – anything synonymous with trash… Because anything not done wholly simply will… not… last.  … And it is ironic because you can feel the tangibility of what it is you want to say deep inside your very being… Some wondrous thing – or perhaps simple – yet nevertheless unexpressed that only your eyes are seeing.  Ahhh if only you didn’t have a noose delivery!

A tendency to get choked up from the throat up when it’s something vital from your heart that needs expressing!  Vision is both a curse and a blessing… You wish that you could just pop a pill discreetly, or take a sip of some magical serum, to free you from this self induced delirium, after-all what good are above average thoughts if you must live in fear of them…?  … Looking… Searching… Waiting… Your soul knowing… That there is an answer… There is a way out of this moat… There is a cure – there is an antidote… There is a little known diner on the outskirts of town… A little further than just a ways away, but closer than too long would take… Open to any who care to pass through its doors into peace, and reverberating revelation… Who have an appetite that yields only unto satiation…

In this diner, the sparkling diamond glasses are for every occasion – for every moment in life is special.  Here – there is no such thing as wasted. No concept of the term “outdated,” no reference for existing without existence and purpose being mated… It’s not Heaven – but it surely is not earth… Just a small, easily missed diner… The menu?  Your heart’s desire.  The sign hanging over the counter only says “Higher.”  Order whatever you like, with whatever sides, anything you can think in your mind can be made manifest, for the deep recesses of thought – are who you are.

… There is but one drink served here however, and accompanies every meal… It unstops your throat, and has a rather curious feel… Smooth going down, but it can make your heart race, or your body shake… Tears may stream down your face – but tongues are always loosened, and obstacles are parted, that one may behold one’s goals… The ears become sensitive to the word “go,” ambition oblivious to the word no, and all too often the diner echoes with fearless declaration of “look out below!!!”  This – this special drink, birthed from the progression of time to meet human needs like dough… This elegant glass of shimmering power that can unblock your throat… THIS – is wine for the soul.

~The Wordsmith

Insomnia

Parallax.

Paralytic vision converter verging on the edge of mended delusion. A rose softly dropping it’s three petals like a roll of silent thunder, because you lacked the  vantage to see the lingering fourth.

Passive aggressive in its active nature, every tree refuses to violate the horizon. Dawn rebels, tired of the earth’s cyclical self, shelving the responsibilities of time management and begrudgingly nudging forever off into eternity.

It’s a cosmic rip, like the moon harpooning your mama’s ceiling and doing lunar things to her while you are sleeping, it makes me sick.

The night sky is the eternal Judas.
The march of time is the wisest clueless.

And my contrite mind stays awake to tune in.

13-ball

13

My childhood fantasy

Was to be a super hero

I remember praying to God one day

Promising to do my best to save the world

To never turn to evil

And to fight for goodness with every moment of my life.

I was ten.

13-ballThree years later I had the same dream

Had the same prayer

And it honestly seems like, I never really aged.

I still wish I had super powers

So I could make a real difference in this world

Perhaps that is why I always feel less than able

It’s hard to consistently and skillfully produce

When you’re satiated with “if onlys” and being ungrateful!

But wait a minute. I’m not a kid. Let’s examine the evidence.

13 made me wishful, but 25 made me capable.

I still cannot fly

But my words and smile take people to far away lands

I cannot move objects with my mind

But I can move souls with my hands

I cannot use the Force

But I can call upon the limitless power of hope

I cannot teleport

But there is no place on the globe that my prayers cannot reach

I can’t run at super speed

But I can be at the side of my neighbor in an eye blink

I still lack x-ray and telescopic vision…

But I can see God everywhere, in everyone and everything.

Hm.

Do not despair younger me

The Lord has answered our prayers after all.

###

One Day

One day we will learn that unity is cultivated by the lines that divide…
One day we will learn that all beliefs are temporary in an open mind…

One day we will see that truth and wisdom aren’t ours to barter and trade with for convenience…
One day we will understand that the struggle of identity is part of the human being experience, even Jesus…

One day we will grasp the folly in thinking we can change who we are through slick phrases and biological arrangement…
One day we’ll stop jabbing life’s book with our broken pens and learn to be adept at studying the pages…

One day we will believe we have purpose so strongly that we know freedom is not in the violating of these fleshly containers…

One day we will respect, not just the divinity, but the INTELLIGENCE of the Creator.

One day it’ll pierce our thick skulls through these skin walls that our issues and justice causes have root flaws that aren’t visible, they’re spiritual…
But until that day…

May we humbly increase in humility and actual understanding…

And may Grace liberally cover us all.

Tale of a Rose: Part II

You are the rose who can’t even see the concrete it is famous for growing from.

Weary traveler bleakly pressing your way towards the mountaintop, it seems impossible that breaking through the concrete was ever deemed a victory.

Ducking the stones from the ones who once praised your bravery, dear rose… give yourself grace… you did not know.

You did not know royalty goes unnoticed when clothed in the struggles of civilians. The king makes the crown, but the crown keeps the eye of the people. That’s why the statement is so falsely regal, it’s not kneel before the king, it is kneel- before the ring of golden steeples.

Respect the crown.

A chilly revelation to match the icy sting of struggle that you never expected.

Wondering why you climb, even as you seek the next cleft in the rocks.

My friend… full blossom wasn’t the destination. In a commonly rare case of defied expectations, you the rose are being called to- elevation.

Your heart is trying to fail within you, but you must not let it.

You are no failure.

You are the Rose.

Tale of a Rose

You survived your own mutiny.

Subdued the internal revolt.

Your battle scars are resolution and confidence… but that means you’ve got no scars to show.

From the outside they slander you as arrogant, condescending, unremorseful… they don’t see you on the mountain barely clinging…

You’re just a rose.

Fierce storms rise up in you. The why dids and why didn’t you’s. And truth be told, part of you wants them, even though they don’t want you and you reason within that if they could see you want them in your struggle that they’d want you too.

Second guesses multiply like fractions of a whole attention span in a 3rd grade math classroom.

Allegiance and loyalty challenged, where growth is the only measuring rod… “Don’t you see me on this mountain?” You say. “Don’t you see this… rose?”

Mudslides and dirty petals. Scruffy lookin nerd herder blacker than the pot that mocked kettle. No reward is worth this…

But it is, my friend, it is.

There is no turned rose tail to tell of in this tale of a rose…

Dust yourself off, and look how far you’ve come.

Leash those emotions and tell them- it’s time to move on.