Monarch

monarchThere are some amazing truths at work in this world.

Take the butterfly for example.  Bypass, if you can, the smooth glint and grin of tilted wings harmonizing with the wind.  Look beyond how it floats through gravity’s realm, deftly impervious to its clutches.  See deeper than its origin story of predestined transformation.  Know all of that, and see none of it.  Look at the butterfly… and see- a butterfly.

The butterfly is an amazing truth.

Why?

Because it is a butterfly.

It is a self contained, blossoming bastion of unique beauty.  Its very not-contingent-upon-your-approval existence is, itself, bold attitude defining it outside of its attributes.  Look from afar through a telescope; look up close with a microscope.

Same miracle.  Same butterfly.  Same created existence wrapped up in something that both you and I lack.

The closest we’ll ever get to being what the butterfly is is through idiomatic literary extravagance.  Metaphors, similes, and poetical analysis analogous to dimensional paralysis- we must freeze the moment we enter the butterfly’s world, and create a memorable memory to cling to when time catches us back up again.

There are some amazing truths at work in this world.

More than there is time to tell of them.

But the butterfly is one, and your neighbor is two.

Just a couple, out of a long line, of synchronous, disparate truths… and amazing to boot.

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Sweet Mystery

 

Sweet.

You’re beautiful. Angelic. Inspiring. Living, breathing poetry beyond all of my writing…

Mystery.

Thoughts out, but heart hidden. Conversational, but with your own mission.

Sweet mystery.

That’s exactly what you are to me.  I’ve become a student of those pupils peeking out from behind the veil that separates the two of us.  There’s a truth in us- true beauty no lust.  But I swore off the romance til I could live the book of Romans… waiting on Heavenly timing, but the clock hands seem paralyzed.  Pair of lives.  All good things come in twos.  The best friend I ever did have, but should I say so it is you I might lose…

My sweet mystery.

Well, not mine per se, but I associate all tasteful things with soulful gravity placing them neatly around me.  But listen… this is night fall, and I don’t wanna see your knight fall- I don’t know if it’s my banner, take a gander, cuz just possibly… it’s me that you were looking for.  But night falls bring sun rise, and lucky me, I’m a son of God. This letter is for you- not for everybody.  But close your eyes when you read it, lest you tell somebody…

People listen,

I’m enticed- by her mystery, an addict like doin mathematics on caffeinated energy.  My vision is prismatic- I see multi-dimensional things.  An asthmatic for ordinary tactics, the mundane is toxic gas and it just stops up my breathing.  I’m willing, to believe that you’re not the only mystery.  That deep inside this home is a Holmes for soul deciphering.  To bring hearts out to the light to breathe.  She’s clinging to that word she got, but I’m her whole vocabulary…

Not braggin. Not boastin. Just sayin and hopin. That maybe the picture of God’s promises are painted in slow motion, and His brush of choice is patience just to get you where you’re going… The word can stay the same, while manifestation embraces change.

Penny for your thoughts…

Nevertheless, you’re ever the best, and with this last letter I put it to rest… No need to freeze, or panic, or stress- what has been decreed needs no further digress… Lest go further I press, and share what is left… This bundled package of “hm” perched here on my chest…

But no- you’re not the only enigma around town.

In this vibrant, exciting land of you and me, sweet mysteries abound.

Cover Up Girl

This is to my cover up girl…

To my queen in the long dresses, real smile, and real hair.  She is a maze of amazing qualities calling my name from higher up.  In order to even capture her gaze in her capturing essence I must go higher up.  I cannot simply look up, but stand down, no- I must rise like dark night to dawn, touch my feet to clouds and stand. My. Ground.

My cover up girl isn’t like all the rest. She’s got class like Mrs. Cleaver, but yall just leave it to cleavage and though I blink when I see it, I already know… on the echelon pole of women with angelic glow she’s a rose on top while yall just battle for the bottom post.  My cover up girl is a secret like your deepest woes, but she wields joy in spades because her heart’s in the right place.

I never met a girl I didn’t want to holla at until I met her… Nor yet since. It’s nonsense to think another girl exists with her sense…  Never met a girl who I didn’t take at least ten seconds imagining what it might be like getting up under her skirt- caressing her face until my finger tips danced romantilustfully down her shirt so we could do the tango and end up… tangled.

My cover up girl gives me nothing to work with save the work I put in listening and trying to sound intelligent. Sure sexiness and crude humor loom under the sailing moon of our conversations, but for once… I don’t want it.  I don’t want the cart before the horse, the sweets before the main course, and what’s blowing my mind is, the depth of this friendship is making her more attractive than any girl I’ve touched or fantasized about before!

Good Lord!

It must be pig flyin season…

This is to my cover up girl.

For takin pride in this time between being invisible and seen… It calls out the man in me.

This is to my cover up girl who does not even know I admire her so…

Your wrap of choice is the jeweled gates of Heaven and even if nobody else believes it… I know.

Thank you… my cover up girl.

Color Me Calm

I’m sorry, but…

I’ve got to let you go.

If I don’t you’ll kill me slow like getting sat on by a sumo.

I can’t sit and sue no mo, I’ve got to clip this cord- solo.

I don’t want your advice, don’t wanna see you in the night, and if I catch you in my dreams I’ll be your nightmare til the light…

Of day.

We had a great time- so much so that the ticks forgot what we were tockin about.

We surpassed earthly limits with the words coming out our mouths…

But then you started hooking me like some street walking trout, and I swore I’d never let nobody pimp me, but that’s all that you’re about.

You played up doubts, and isolated my flaws, flooring me with your logic, capturing me with your jaws.

You sly dog, you really had me in your paws, but I got the magic to slit Santa claws, and I’m leaving you frozen in the fro-zone, all ice cold like Alaskan polos…

I relinquish thee, and give out free for free…

For the only path to self liberty, is liberating my enemy…

I see that now.

People… I let them know.

YOU- I let you go.

And now I win decks for my soul, enjoying new company like dollar presidents around a pole…

Pause.

Yep, I never fail to leave ’em slack jawed, learned that from my grandpop, hitch em to amazing by using shock and awe…

Welp I love that my enemies are still living,

Which means I’ve begun forgiving…

So long, this has been a long ending…

Unforgiveness- we’re DONE.

**

~The Wordsmith

The Father Collective

Nobody cuts any slack for the fathers…

We are the most valuable treasure, but yet are not treasured, and it’s true that our mere presence can make the household better, but why… bother.  Nine times out of ten we had to forge our own definition of men, and we learned to persevere and make it through this existence without suffering extinction, but then family happens and- we lose our freedom.  It is not so much that you are shackles as much as we do not know what to do with you, and had you had this upbringing too, then you would know that knowledge that wasn’t yours was taboo… Ignorance kills.  Knowledge is life, and life leads to thrills.  Survival, sex, and beer!!  Survival, sex, and beer!!  Survival, sex, and beer!!  The mantra encoded on the heart of any man who survived- and gladly do we so cheer.  We celebrate our victory, til the moment rings in our ears… Survival, sex, and beer… Survival, sex, and beer…

Nobody cuts any slack for the fathers…

We would never stoop so low as to complain, nor come in too high like an aero plane, but instead we drop our truths on you like the fallen rain, and for the most part we just want you to not argue and simply say- okay.  At the fringes of this motley coalition are those infamous for woo’ing, impregnating, and abandoning women… Tearing out the hearts of children… Laying hands of violence, slinging the crane into the very structures he’s supposed to be building… That’s wrong.  We apologize.  But understand that we are, plagued by demons the like of which you’ve never seen.  We’ve had to partner with darker things in order to survive to the point where you were brought into being.  This is by no means an excuse, but a tunnel into the underground of fractured manhood, to show you our only perception of truth…

Nobody cuts any slack for the fathers.

Perhaps maybe a little from the daughters, for their hearts go the farthest, but the cold numb of a broken son, is not a damage that is easily undone.  In fact- it never can be.  A broken son, looks to the sun, and raises an unbroken canopy, candidly ranting that his predecessor is who he’ll never be not realizing that as he acts out his scene he is re-enacting… me.  Once a tape has played, rewinding only reinforces the memory and seers in the history- it does not eliminate anything… What we fathers dimly realized too late is that our little boy selves needed healing… Now we are pressed like dry olives to produce much needed oil, our skin starts to boil, health is unfamiliar soil, we come uncoiled, like day old newborns.  In the eyes of the expectant we catch a glimpse of our own reflection, and as we doctor up a prescription we mourn because we never found the medicine.  So what we offer is a calculated concoction, risking it all on the hope that you will find life where we downed a tank full of toxins…

We need grace. 

We need a new way.

We need someone to rise up and prove that the sun has moved and this is a new day…

Even the hero needs a hero sometimes.

Next time you have something to drink… pour a little in the street for us…

… Because nobody cuts any slack for the fathers.

 

**

~The Wordsmith