Poetry \\ True Blue Lies in Skies

 
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Does the sky know the difference

Between good and bad?

Feathery twists and turns

Suggest otherwise

It’s not what I thought

But it is what I knew

A wake up call

From the distraction

I wake up

And call for a distraction

True blue lies unhidden

Clouds hang in the balance

Between being right

And being free

Never mind

It’s all just an illusion anyway

Any way I look

You won’t see what I see

I’ll watch the clear blue skies

With crystal eyes

I’ll pray to clouds that shift

With purpose

Not to the storm

That may never come

Does the sky know the difference?

Maybe

Maybe not

Or maybe it’s just wise enough

Not to care

 

Poetry \\ The Key

 
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The wind was neither polite
Nor forgiving today
As it slammed against
My questioning forehead
Asking me more questions
That only the Sun
Seemed wise enough to answer

If you could have a key
To anything
What would you unlock first?

Joy whispered, “Me! Pick me!”

Dreams placed a crown
Of hand-picked wildflowers
Upon my head
Pronouncing me royalty

Love sighed and gave me
The Look
That would melt
Polar ice caps
Into sapphire rose petals

Freedom hoisted me
Onto his strong shoulders
And eagerly shared a sneak preview
Through the cloudless sky

Grace hummed softly
As she placed
Promises on my heart

Mastery wickedly leaned in
For a kiss
Daring me to
Resist

When Truth came
She opened her doors
And arms
Beyond the glow
Of the Sun
And invited everyone in
For a prayer

She asked for nothing
In return

I looked toward the Sun
For a ray of approval
And handed her the key

Poetry \\ Not One Thing

 
 
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We’re not
All one thing
Or the other

We are Dark
Drowning
Lost

And that’s ok

We are Bright
Breathing
Found

And that’s ok

We are Quiet
Confused
Terrified

And that’s ok

We are Bold
Certain
Fearless

And that’s ok

We are The Sun
The Moon
The Air
The Sea

And that’s ok

We are the Stars
The Earth
The Night
The Day

And that’s ok

We are The Heart
The God
The Truth
The Unknown

And that’s ok

We are Everything
We are Nothing

Never
Just one thing

And that’s ok

Poetry \\ Auroral Night

 
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It’s a falsehood
Of the mind
A broken gate
That doesn’t lock
A September
Without sun
A harvest moon
Drawn into dark

No sweet cherry
On the topping
Dried up pits
Are all we get
When we ask
The “proper” questions
Expectations
Dutifully met

It’s a falsehood
Of the soul
To drink a
Full glass of compliance
A severed line
A stolen tale
The Great Belief
A hardened science

In hollowed hands
We carry the sun
Amidst the thorns
Sharp-edged and clear
Haunted echoes
Held in love
Auroral night
So bright, so near

This House

I float in the hammock

Feeling the air move through my toes. 

I listen to the soft chirps of the finches

And the cawing of the crows.

 

She’s old, this house. Not ancient, not in any sort of a grand historical way, but she’s lived things. She’s seen things. Things I will never know.

Her foundation is strong. She’s sturdy, even after all these years. Even after being unloved for so many, if not all, of them.

I love her, this house. Or rather, I’m learning to love her. She’s not perfect, you see. Not even close. She has aches and pains and some deep wounds from being unloved for so many years. 

I hope she knows it wasn’t her fault.

She’s not grand, architecturally speaking. She doesn’t have any particularly defining details. And her floor plan is quite pedestrian. I want her to know, though, that she can just be who she is. That being here - being my home - is enough.

That I will love her even when she breaks a little.

And that she really is magnificent in her own way. She doesn’t need to be anything other that what she already is to be loved. 

I feel her come alive more and more as she gets the love she’s been craving for so long.

 

The birds sing to her.

She’s wrapped in flowers now.

The sun sparkles its way through her new windows

And the walls glow in the golden hour.

 

She holds onto her old parts just enough to keep herself together until she is given new. She waits patiently, this sturdy girl, like she’s waited for many years. She waits like she’s just beginning to trust love for the first time. She waits like she knows she won’t have to hold onto her old parts much longer.

And I can feel her age becoming increasingly irrelevant. 

 

“Youth,” she says “is a merely state of mind.”

 

I watch the bees dance around the cucumber blossoms. 

The hearty hydrangea leaves flutter in the breeze.

The squirrels chase each other through the fruit trees, taunting each other with the peanuts I just tossed out to them for a snack. 

And I agree with her.

 

Beauty is being loved.

Beauty is being seen.

 

Does she love herself, this house? Does she even know what self-love is? 

“Yes,” she whispers “but I’ve forgotten how after being neglected for so long.” 

 

I tell her she’s not beautiful when…

She is beautiful now. 

She’s not loved when… 

She’s loved now. 

 

She listens. And little by little she comes alive with all of her inherent love and beauty. In this moment, I suddenly realize she is very, very wise. And that somehow, in me loving her, she has so much more to teach me.