Salvation writes His manifesto in these dark hours of living. A child is born, light scented and perilously full of love. Salvation will begin and end in blood, in pain, in unjust humbleness. Beauty sprouts from dust, just as it always has. Just as the camellias jab their smiling faces through sheets of ice to lend the dead world their color. Christmas gleams like a gem on each desiccated year because the light of our savior shone through the eyes of a child. That light, that sweet, serene fire, is purifying us for endless euphoria.
Tag: poetry
Christmas Poem
Among the Christmas scented pines, my good deeds burning with the rest of the greenery in His all consuming fire. How paltry is my finest, purplest day next to one second of God’s goodness?
Salvation comes from the womb of a girl with a blue soul, blue as purity, as truth. Salvation that begins and ends in blood, in pain, in unjust humbleness. Beauty sprouting from dust, just as it always has. Just as the camelias jab their smiling faces through sheets of doleful ice to lend the dead world their color.
- This poem is in progress. I am still refining it for the church Christmas celebration
Pink Maximalism
The night crawls over the land. Invasive starlight populates my pupils. I am ready for betrayal. I am ready for fool’s gold. I’m ready for a storm to beat me against the coast of dreaming. But nothing could have prepared me for the pink maximalism that is love.
Truth
Wild sentence chase down Sincerity, beat him with feathers and tar him with honey. What happens when the truth gets overpopulated? Are you true? I’m true to you.
Victim
Heavy happenings stain me like ink. When the clouds tease me, they rain just enough to mist my hair. I can never quench my thirst or rinse the shine from my skin. The world is a foil sparkling in my kitchen. Darkness darkness everywhere and not a drop to drink. The crashes out on the train tracks are daily now. I am a victim not yet assigned a death.
Queen Midas
Tangy recollections of pterodactyls in the yard feast on my maladapted days. A cult of glitter waits to coat my dinner. I am Queen Midas. Predators prowl the shores of my body. Body evanescent. Body effervescent. Evolution wears a red sequin dress, her leathery legs exposed, and her petrified breasts heaving in opalescent colors.
Salvation…a Vision
Christmas is a plot line in a novel I sew with the soft pink silk of my lungs. How God, as vanilla voiced as He is, could write a letter of love to a spider with a breathing addiction is beyond me. But I’m grateful. I wear my garnets to the foyer of Bliss and reconfigure my name. When the lightning bug veers too close to me, I cut him free, and I bleed.
Oh Yellow!
The grass is so unfair, blemishing the earth with shades of antipsychotic and anesthetic green. I long instead for flowers. Flowers mailing a parcel at the post office. Flowers mending my broken spirit. Flowers mining the sun for smiles. Purple flowers purr fancifully. Pink flowers harvest at the vineyard. And yellow flowers! Oh yellow! Toying with my tresses and my head, leading me down alleys of lust.
3 Visions of God
God is a painter.
Fuchsia climbs teal until a cool zenith is reached.
God is a poet.
The words He sows in the crevices
Of my mind bear fruit a glorious shade
Of red violet.
God is a mathematician.
How 1 can be >1,000,000
And how leaving 99 to go after one multiplies blessings.
Light’s Hostess
With stinging precision, the words running riot (wearing their little purple pelerines) ran me through with sharpened criticism. I have been lax with the water lately and with cream. Festooned angels wait for my better judgment to kick in like a geriatric song on a scratchy record player. I have neglected my responsibilities as Light’s hostess. Mahogany fog fills me in with an inauspicious and anticlimactic anticipation.
Miniature Moon 