Bridges
We can stop now, we are not deluded, not that story, it is not the main theme. We don’t need to fulfill anything else; we are bridges over the creek, we have been shown more, and ¿to what end, if all those stage lights were not for us to bask in? No, we’ve recapped, passing through a tunnel of thrills and goose bumps, fleeting passions immersed in philosophies, until they mellowed, settling into us for certain. We can stop now; this is not our stage. We’re the tunnel, a passage, a bridge hanging over a ravine; an invisible network of comm lines, waves that work gently, prompting, coaxing, while all hell breaks loose. Let’s halt our fidgeting, without frustration or wallowing; let us tell all, say it like it’s been, and allow that story to do the sacred work we’ve been entrusted with. We are not the romantics of old, but always hopeful in His works; not delusional, but imagination has converted our soul. We’ve been bathed in more than a half century recap, we are the direct line of transformation. Stop your worry, we are already in place, between time frames, generations. We can sit still and speak our original kind of diplomacy with a cup of tea. Our message will resound even if unnoticed today; the song took years to be fully finished, and it shall take plenty more to be heard. A hanging bridge, we sway gently over a deep ravine, being the work. Someone will hear the song and eventually want to cross, be sure of it, and let that be your faith.
Summon
Black angel came to do his bidding, to a soul he didn’t know, a kind he’d never tried. He took the gamble, with not a thing to lose in the vacuum of his chest: the poor creature had shut off the light and summoned amnesia. An alien of this planet, he pretended to understand, unsure of what to do, so I shone a light for him to make it all believable, until I had to point elsewhere. He spasmed, shook, unable to stand alone in his peculiar nature. He began compulsive calculations, came up with all sorts of numbers, descriptions, and reasons; could not comprehend his part in our world, as he came from one where mirrors didn’t exist. He’d ever seen himself in other eyes, in love’s open countenance. He pleaded for others to urge the shadows away, but no one’s help would do. I explained to him that my flashlight points to what can reflect even more, for all our sakes, but he cannot grasp that. He’ll have to live the inversion he summoned, where vacuum consumes all light. Now, I let him wander the void and maybe choose to remember… or not. I let him search for the faintest echo in the dead of silence, let him understand there is one path back to grace. A wide path, but one only, where you summon the light in.
No Analogues
Written prose, verse, choosing beauty, upholding value, creating my life.
The Ball, a prayer for January
Short piece of written prose; prayer, learning to receive, mastering abundance, overcoming fear, lack mindset.
Fringe
Creative short prose, women in the family, being unusual, living in two worlds, dealing with society.
Springs
That hope springs eternal It has been said Sarcasm or bliss But what if hope be the mesh? Sifting, Dread of sharp gravel Impoverished thought disgraced Pictures torn and mended Voiced disarray Chimes hardened to rust No message conveyed. And if hope be the finest Might she be formed by air Flickers of matter Mysterious substance Prowess of light? That nothing could touch her Yet power belied Such fabric confected by hands beyond mind To withstand our sorrows Doubts and dismay I dare say she lies quiet Amidst a spring they call faith So we hide behind eyes Soaked Striding terrains on the bleakest night Groping on forward Hoping to see But desperate hands grow numb We must stop to breathe And when in air unhindered By heavy footsteps dense We notice at last Her lonely hope of sense That hearts might flicker When chimes announce Hidden springs revealed Faith lost and found