this Old House

This old house has seen it all before. The rummaging of angst…The backdoor horrors…

Three crows circling the unkempt gardens, pecking orders for the leftovers.

Descending much like beggars to pennies upon the floor.

This old house…closed for repairs…missing steps in the stairs.

Leaking self depreciating humor…encased in toxic rumor.

This old house…if only you had known sooner.

A foundation built on Christ.

Dining in prayer with the Father and a roll of the dice.

‘Come home.’

I shall tell you now.

I shall tell you now…

what all these years…

you have missed.

“Nail and frail and lying low. A legacy cast no shadow. For it must have not just shape and form, but contempt for danger…or, it only lay shallow.”

“Occasionally, we have to take care of those who once…took care of us. Often leaving, the participants, stuck between wonder-lust and antiquated mistrust.”

Signs of the Father

My Father used to say, peace be with you…

But it never was.

Holding a stark bare cross above the bedroom door…

I had been taught ‘this is love.’

Father would shake my hand until life caught hold

Eventually, in obsession, he became less bold.

My Father had sent me to deviant schools.

I had been taught of prejudice, good books, how to look for fools.

My Flag

I took my flag to church…with chimes ringing at noon.

I took my flag to church for healing.

I placed my

red…for the color of my skin

blue…for my mother’s sadness

white…for cleansing my weak mind

upon a ancient altar.

I waited for condolense from a religion I did not choose.

I brought my own incense

my native tongue.

I placed, delicately, the love and duct tape I had been born with.

I laid out the only tools I knew how to use.

I found no tranquility among the brick and mortar confines.

I found my soul crying out for her own mind.

Wrapping my flag about me…I stammered out…wearing a rainbow of colors …I refused to become blind.

the Musical Finger of Grief

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I am willing to point my one finger of grief at the ‘strange and unusual’ things.

Stuff like:

lost dog

  • Trolls live under bridges
  • There are criminally insane persons running around state hospital grounds!  Just running loose like squirrels in the spring.

(Wait, that could be true.  I am a product of two state hospital patients (one of which lived on the secured psychiatric unit.  And, both Ma and Pa were insistent that I did not cut through hospital grounds due to nefarious beings with shackles around their ankles.)

Regardless, there are still many proven, solid, scientific, ideals…that I choose to denounce.

  • Catholic priest are basically good
  • Adult men, in boy scout uniforms, are just bonding with small boys when they hold sleepovers on a mountain side
  • I really can talk to the animals.  Particularly, the Dogs.  Not the Cats per-say.  I used to talk to the Cats but it felt like confession to a deaf ears.

And, presently, another train of thought…I just cannot swallow…

Christian author: Trump is under attack from ‘multidimensional Luciferian advanced beings’

Last week, End Times author Paul McGuire appeared on the Jim Bakker Show and declared that President Trump is currently engulfed in “the greatest spiritual battle in the history of all mankind.” He expanded on his claim on his radio program this Thursday, this time clarifying that the battle is with “advanced beings” who possess “supernatural multidimensional” powers.

http://deadstate.org/author/sky-palma/

I get it.  Aren’t we all in the greatest spiritual battle of our lives?  Yet, as a not newly released Pagan/Curious Spirit, my waking moments are not filled with ‘let’s go get those evangelicals’ behavior.

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One more falsehood, I wish to pursue…

I do not believe in the Burning Bush for the simple reason…

If you or anyone, Moses, Noah, Adam, Eve and/or Ruth (no relation) came across a ‘burning bush’…Smokey would tell us to put the fucker out!

 

 

Jubilee’s Stance

Crows have picked all sanctimonious bones from my husk, so over the hill

Doubts hurl about in the frenzy of drafty April’s afternoon

Theologians with their vestments of velvet billowing from the tundras

could never let their fibers flounder in the stance of this jubilee

This epiphany defies sectarian gospel

So much so, any shallow impetus…neither could not or would not, draw a rebirth improvisation from established misery

A sense of victory weaves as poetic vines in circles around the lies once fed

The earth does not grow beneath a prostrate bed