Give me dreams

I think
They’ll come for me again
In the dark.

When I close my eyes
My dreams teem with the undead

Choices I have yet to make and
Faces that return from decades passed
Loom at out me through crooked ruins.

I am a seeker of stories through the night
I live the fear so I may learn to write.

Dreams are a constant blessing to me
They remind my heart what is significant
By contrasting what is not.

I give thanks to the dream-weaver…
I give also nighttime and a blank slate.

Naps are tricky things

Do not take three hour naps in the evening, else when night comes
Your heart will run as if for its life from imagined gunmen
And you will have a hard time convincing your heart that there is nothing there and nothing going on at this godforsaken hour, and go to sleep, you inky thing, let the words inside you take a break for the night.
But it pumps along anyhow and you are stuck awake for as long as you indulged in a nap earlier.

What I want

Normally I am this bouncing ball of energy and loudness
Social lightning rippling through my veins like fire
Now I am pensive
I think and reflect and wonder and smooth words do not drop from my lips like river pebbles
For the first time in my life

I feel shyness like a thick cloak about me
Covering and protecting but inhibiting
I am afraid to be me
Or me has become less;
Whatever it is, I do not think I like it
I want to return to how and who I was before
Loud like the sunrise, shattering into the world
A new dawn, rudely eclipsing the calm night
Blazing with fierce self respect, ready to lead the new horizon beyond itself.

(But what I want may not be what is best for me. Perhaps God has a plan that is as of yet murky in my sight. I will trust and follow. He knows my desires and also my needs.)

what i carry

Such normalcy begins my life

How regular, how true!

Paper books and jewelry

Clasped by iron;

Silver hooks and rings

Wooden pencils stamped with numbers.

Nothing I keep in canvas tombs is spectacular at all.

But within, ah, inside

The tightness that stalks my breath

My belongings portend not the million rhymes – a thousand lives! – that cry within my head.

At any given moment, paper is in my blood

Ink and swirling words unborn

That live within the crimson flood.

Shaped not by what I carry

Rather what has clung to me;

Pains, and deformities

Torn bones and clicking knees.

My body at times is weak; my limbs move of their own accord

I cannot say why the bones inside

Curve how ribs should never do.

Also, soul-kept, are memories

Of blinding light that touched my skin;

Healing stars that burst with love and

Cured the screaming flame within.

But gnashing teeth, pale shadow-wraiths

Haunt my bones with  bitter cold.

They cut apart the light

They want it to bleed out into pale mockeries;

I fight with everything I me

To tame them, make them warm, my own.

I was given words to battle

All the shadows that bleed inside

My words creep past with tainted wings

And burn the darkness as they fly.

Subsequently, consequently, the light prevails in the end.

The blending shadow harmony of all that cuts into my soul

Is gone!

Fades away – just a memory, wavering – never even sure of itself.

But I must carry it all the same.

I tear with words of sharpened sound

They break the cold that pins me down

I feel them warm me, fight what numbness is left.

Words of breath and wind and love –
they cling to me now, my armor, my gift.

Crisis new- number two

A whole new crisis, a whole new fear
Terror stalks me – even here?
What if this is but a dream
God, a fantasy
Life, a myth
Everything that I love but a falsehood
And no way
For me
to scream

What if it’s all some freakish imagining
A crazy person’s hoping
Or even not a person.
What is reality?
What if my soul is not real?
What if life is fleeting to the point it’s not even a breath
More like a cough
Or a choking
A mistake.

Panic builds inside me with every thought
What if
What if
what if

But the gentle murmur of my parents down the hall
Tells me I’m not alone.
Words anchor me to this world
They tell me the forests are made of trees; that every rock is a stone.

The bag boy at the grocery store
With the curly hair;
His friendly greeting.
The woman with the Jamaican accent who remembers my whole family
Who questions where someone is
When they are missing;
These people
Prove to me
The world has kindness in it.
And thus it must be real
It must be solid.

The pain in my side
Where my bone sticks out, misshapen,
Every time I try to lay on my belly;
Proves to me I’m alive.

And last, most important
Most reassuring of all
The God who gave these words to me
Who beckons me;
Who hides from me, so I may seek;
Who leads me to mysteries
And wonders
And beautiful things;
Well, that very God
Crafted me.
He doesn’t make mistakes.
He made this life.
It’s real.
I’m alive.
None of this is a dream,
Or a charcoal mare with mane of night;
The pain is real, the fear is real
But so also is real
The light.