Helping Turtles Across the Road

So few are my misguided thoughts on religion…whilst in the arms of a golden, August day.

I could walk forever into the unknown…bathing in the silver lining of a sunflower’s intoxicating…glow.

I could even dare all tomorrow’s…in the deep, stare of a steer’s gaze.

Now and always, deep in the musky, wild…sorrow weakens.

Worry becomes less bold.

I understand all that is not mine….because the stillness of humid air tells me so.

Crab Apple perfumes my mind…

I live to let go.

All this and so much more…

helping snappers across Morrill road…

Is the only religion I need to know.

A Hymn to the Evening

Soon as the sun forsook the eastern main
The pealing thunder shook the heav’nly plain;
Majestic grandeur! From the zephyr’s wing,
Exhales the incense of the blooming spring.
Soft purl the streams, the birds renew their notes,
And through the air their mingled music floats.
Through all the heav’ns what beauteous dies are spread!
But the west glories in the deepest red:
So may our breasts with ev’ry virtue glow,
The living temples of our God below!
Fill’d with the praise of him who gives the light,
And draws the sable curtains of the night,
Let placid slumbers sooth each weary mind,
At morn to wake more heav’nly, more refin’d;
So shall the labours of the day begin
More pure, more guarded from the snares of sin.
Night’s leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes,
Then cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise.

#Phillis Wheatley, the first African American to write a book of poetry.

Something About Mary

As ravished as the house had been, being within made me feel less broken.

The overgrown grass, sporadic dead spots on the lawn…it spoke to me of being alone with my thoughts.

Maiden Mary would greet me with her loose ways.

Twisted as she was, she encouraged me to come out of the big book and play.

Years strolled pass and Mary stayed, solidified to those that pray.

And, though she had wished me to always be well. Through her painted on tears…I could tell,

Mary had been living in a personal hell.

Could it have been that we both had were under a broken spell?

Pretend, Friend

Do they got a 57 Chevy in the yard?

Do they remember 8 tracks?

Do they say their Hail Mary’s?

Do they fear their environment?

Have they heard of sit-ins’ and Negros to the back?

Have they seen the needle in the spoon?

Stranger, stranger, where have you been?

Should I trust you?

What are the sacraments?

Will we both, continue to pretend,                             friend?

the Catholic Woman

She had no oxygen…so I brought the metal devil to her.

Just a tourniquet for a blistered soul.

She never fared well, hot.

She never fared well, cold.

Quiet were her ways.

A tsunami were the words…she did not say.

One sinner could cling to her devotion.

Just as I, began to sink slowly in her god-fearing lifeboat.

Out and out, by myself, in a turbulent ocean.

Every Sunday metal tank set at ease.

No longer was she…to kneel before the hosanna.

Wheeled, forefront and center, beside other elders…

strands of rosaries, strung together like christmas lights.

A hymn all their own.

One Sunday with all the prayers of faith and health.

One Sunday…when the oxygen ran out.