Aced Out

Feet to ground.

Head to the sky.

Body standing tall in the pool of gravity.

Life inflicts its demands on me quite lavishly, eliciting a vividly livid response from my living… What matters most?  Sun beams lance down like lasers from a futuristic space battle, striking my skin with keen efficiency.  Each step down the street is one more in the incredible heat, and the sweat beads around my eyebrows swiftly.

I call a full scale retreat into air conditioning.

My body is battered from battling and I must re-treat my wounds.  Naked I lay on this hospital bed of poetry, waiting for the nurse to re-dress everything broken in me.  Waiting for these words to stitch me back together, and for these flows to regenerate the hope in me.

Air conditioning.

I was pushing hard- trying to reach my best until I was bested by stress and it sent me into cardiac arrest, and now I lay here behind bars.  Trapped behind rhymes, mentally scarred, and fearful…  What if I can never walk again?  What if I am doomed to sleep, but never dream, eyes permanently opened in a comatose state glued to the ceiling?

…What matters most?

I drown while breathing and the waters of planetary pull slosh around me mercilessly… Grounded.  Like a ten year old sent to his room, or a plane with no wings, I am stranded here against my will.  My gaze sees the birds high and free and I struggle against the chains of my insecurities.  My wrists chafe against the shackles and a desperate prayer slips off my tongue… Nothing elegant, witty, or over spiritual- just a request for realness.  A plea to fully die, or fully be alive, but be loosed from this shadowy place in between.

I sleep.

I weep.

I breathe.

Prophetic imagery has succumbed to lobotomy- my future is swathed in darkness.  What to do… Where to go… Who to trust…

God, I need you.

… In the absence of my own faith, His voice speaks for me.

I am afraid of the unknown, but that won’t keep me from walking…

Feet to the ground.

Head to the sky.

Body standing tall in the pool of gravity.

 

Letter To Nicki Minaj

Dear Nicki Minaj,

I had a moment as I watched MTV portray your own…

For the longest time my soul was an a-hole as I stuck my nose down at you… This newest hip-hop diva to break into the scene, rocking the stages with rocker hair every shade of every hue…

I felt nothing but disdain.

Though Christian I proclaimed to be- and indeed I am- I dropped the love from my hand, and scooped up two tons of sand, to rub the image I had of you raw.

My vision flickered between what my pride and the world saw, I was a road hog, knowing the world was wrong, but filling my lanes of thought with slop… about you.

But today something changed.

Seeing your face, and hearing your story, crippled me suddenly and I needed a cane… and Jesus was right there for me.

Trinidad… crack dad… big family… poverty… struggling- always struggling…

And the love for your mother.

A story tugging on my heart strings, not simply for sake of dramatic melodies, but because I could see the Trinity in it…

God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

The tears that trickled down despite your best efforts to retain, reached deep into my tear ducts and caused my to do the same, and as I watched you hold hands and pray, fighting against violence, calling on the strength of day, seeing the words leave your lips, touch Heaven, and return with God’s kiss… I realized something.

You and I – we are the same.

And as you sealed your petition with the name- Jesus Christ who was raised- Eden’s flowers burts forth from the dirt of my heart and God fixed my gaze.

So firstly I apologize- both for conjuring  and believing the lies.

And secondly I commit my time to pray… for you, yours, and mine.

And yes to your surprise, I’m not like other guys, assessing your butt size, tryna get inside…

I looked at you and saw my God, and amidst all the applause, I saw your heart for lost, and realized- we’re connected by the Cross.

This letter is to let you know that you are not alone for the nights you feel iso…

This letter is to let you know that every guy isn’t lusting for your body when you feel you have nobody…

This letter is to let you know that you have support- every missionary needs it…

I hope that this letter reaches your eyes, and touches your heart…

I pray that the Holy Spirit would continue to hold you tight, and work in and with you to make you whole…

I pray for healing, and reconciliation, and for your joy and faith to grow…

I’m not looking for a hookup, but rather for THE hookup- for you to hook up to the Lord who loves you and cling to Him when life tells you He doesn’t… He’s your sustaining healing force- that’s why we call Him life support. :o)

Feel free to reach out should you ever need a true friend…

In this day and age we bear the benefit of electronic correspondence…

Any one of my emails goes straight to my phone, and as I end this letter, I pray that the Lord gives you a taste of TRUE wine for the soul…

Love,

~The Wordsmith

thelioneffect.weebly.com (email on the site)

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

Prayer Covering

Lord the soldiers are hurting…

Their burdens are burying them with their burning…

They open their mouths to call on the Cross, but instead vomit blood…

They spent their energy with you bringing sight from dirt, but then fall into the mud…

Lord this goes out to all the people hidden within themselves…

I make this request on behalf of the invisible people like myself…

Lord be a stronghold in times of despair…

Be the overpowering truth when they feel like no one cares…

Lord lift up the down trodden, and clean the wounds of the smitten…

Siphon off the poison from where they have been bitten…

Lord I fervently pray for Your light to shine out of the dark…

To pierce, and mend every broken, confused, misled heart…

Restore the strength to the back of the abused…

Bring equilibrium to those who have been emotionally used…

Father make Yourself known!!

Do not leave Your people in this iconic moment.

Dear God I come against all manner of strongholds, disease, and mental lockdown…

I come against every dark spirit operating from the burn of hell…

I decree the qualities of Heaven, and I pray that You sweep your glory through…

Lord we simply won’t make it if we are not sustained by Your truth.

Lord be a fence, and offense…

Be our conqueror in this time when our arms begin to sink…

Lord whisper into our ears Your superlative peace…

Still our souls, and mend our ears to hear Your voice and tune out the oppressing shrieks…

Lord we want to believe.  So teach us.

Lord we want to sit at Your table and eat.  So feed us.

You are the core, fullness, and completeness of our every need…

Lord we need you – and we cry out.

Hear the silent moans as hearts begin to pound.

Lord cover Your people – and show Yourself faithful once again…

Lord heal and restore as only You can, and let Your glory overtake the land…

… The soldiers are hurting.

And You are the only One that makes suffering worth it.

So please – descend, and deliver upon Your eagles’ wings.

Lord, we will Yours – and we trust You over circumstance…

Help our unbelief.

Lord open our eyes to Your kingdom that we may truly see…

In the matchless, mighty, wholly authoritative name of Jesus Christ,

Amen.

 

 

**

~The Wordsmith

4 Drink Minimum

A soldier solders the shrugs of his shoulders with sober composure…

Fighting for the light, with might, when the night of love reigns over…

Invisibly battling the unseen, for those to which his heart cleaves, and his heart beats with one plea –

To be truly – seen.

**

~The Wordsmith