If you want to follow this blog, I warn you. We are emotional, here. We are sometimes frustrated, tired, and some of us are beaten and broken; looking for words that will bring calm to storms that have not passed yet. For the messiah himself was sent to those who were sick. Some of us are sick. Walking mistakes looking to be healed in places technology has not tapped into yet. Waiting for the ink in this pen to heal the shattered pieces of our souls. You see this pen, all courage shaped in my hand, is here to lift the fallen, to restore the broken, and to heal the hurting. The people here, those who follow this blog and the person who owns it, do not all have it together. So, if you want to join us I caution you: We are not robots mechanically maneuvering our way through social media. We do hold ourselves accountable, I must add for excuses do not live here, but we are not fake. We do not inhale html codes and hyperlinks, and our blood is not made of oil. Though I cannot promise you that we won’t leave stains, for we ourselves are stained. And yet, we know that we will not always be this way because our mistakes make room for healing. So we look for evidence of growth in the strangest places, like cracked surfaces, rocks, and hard places. Welcome.
Category: creative writing
The Potent Word
Can I spit poison into your life just by speaking words into your skin? Or can I speak life into your life by cultivating peace into your heart? Words. So important and potent, life threatening and life creating. We must never forget the power of words, their motives and intentions, their power and potency. I marvel at how easily we curse one another. Every day there is someone trying to clean up the blood they spilled by gossiping behind someone’s back, or begging for wishful deaths to go back to its chamber of meaning. Never tell someone you wish they’d leave this earth, or that you hate their guts. You may indeed be charged with murder before the words escape your mouth. I often wonder why I have taken on the task of this kind of bravery, to become a professor of words. To become part of a community where the next murderer is just one page away from me. Perhaps I have a death wish, releasing words into the air with only the hope that they will bring back life. I publish each post with shaking hands, a trembling finger; a focused mind. Carefully crafting and considering the words I put into the air. Writers. The bravest people I know. Managers of the potent word.
Spirit Words
Stretch your thoughts forward with much care. Hold them in your mind with the fragility of a newborn’s bones and then unfold them from your tongue like ancient scrolls . Let them drip oxygen on the page so that you leave the post just as pure as it was before your spirit left it’s imprint in our souls. Let your words stain peace that I may inhale joy that cuts through bone and marrow. For sticks and stones may break bones but deadly is the venom of a tasteless word. How dull is the stare of a ball pointed pen bleeding empty? Who knew words were spiritual; the invisible breath of life to nostril. There is nothing more powerful than a righteous tone with angels wings let loose in its time. Pen to paper or voice to air. Choose your spirit words carefully. It wouldn’t make sense leaving trails of bodies hanging on top blog post walls.
The First Sentence
What is this post without its beginning? I have heard over the years how important you are and your contribution to the writing process but I’ll be the first to admit, I don’t always put you first. Don’t always put much thought into you. So you test my patience with the very need to begin. Times where my mind is far too cluttered with a hanging word waiting to be pushed to the middle of this screen. You see though I trust that I can give birth here, I have since remembered there is movement in stillness. I have since learned to cherish you as something more than a good morning greeting thrown into the air and smashing into walls. I promise to not turn my back or kiss you gently on the morning after. No longer can, “Hello”, or “What’s up my people?” prove sufficient, for you are the commencement. The beginning. The start of this post and worth more than just some nightly fling. For what is the cake without its icing? The cooking pot without its lid? What is a post without its opening sentence? Must I risk my words boiling over the edge of posts and spilling sloppily into WordPress readers? All this mess that a conclusion of a sentence won’t clean-up for me.
The Gentle Rain
I am from the earth. My skin soft like the soil. I watch as the rain slithers from the sky like perspiration from my brow. It brings with it the taste of tranquility, and the smell of clean. I let the water kiss the palms of my hands and muddy itself into the soil of my skin. Perhaps it will seek to filter my thoughts and purify my soul as it does the air. The winds are soft and polite this warm and yet cool morning; a mixture of bleak sunshine and splashes of gray. I hope to accomplish what needs to be done. Who knows, I may just give birth to flowers this day, a rose or perhaps a lily or two, with the gentle rain.
Dear Deception
You try to hide, but I know you are there among them. I can hear it when they walk and smell it in their smiles. The truth is that you inebriate them with lies. Overflowing their presence like air under pressure. Shame that some of them can’t even stand up straight, staggering through social media unaware that their ignorance is showing. You have taught them to expose their nakedness. Now their heart is blackened with the scars of falsehood, and their minds poisoned with comfort. Sometimes they are even unaware of the stench they carry like walking viruses and destructive pestilence. They sit among graves and befriend the first corpse they see smiling. You think you know wisdom, but foolishness is bathed in your shadow and kindness is a game you play on the minds of the weak; snickering behind the concocted words of flattery and the secret winking you perform under the mask you wear. You have even fallen prey to your own fabricated illusions. Casting manipulating spells on the unknown, yet you wrap yourself in white and wear a silver wig. Indeed you are deception, a lie that is made to look like the truth.
Dear Chandelier,
Some of us are just too close to the ground to see what the sky looks like and yet you, in your own way, have become the hanging crystal of inspiration. You stand unaffected among grand halls and ballrooms; of corporate offices and living rooms. I watch at the coming and going of guests. Some of them important, some not. They wrap themselves in fruitless conversation and rest their bottoms in chairs that hug the table beneath you. They shout with laughter and hold their noses in the air and yet they live on the ground. They have to look up to you and gasp in awe. So modest and rooted is this simple fixture in a room. I watch as your radiance pulls their mouths to the floor. Watch your occasional swing shift their eyes; watch your gracefulness stop their breaths. Softly and delicately, your crystals spark reflection like the conviction of a mirror, in which we are all forced to see ourselves. We try to move to a less luminous part of the room, but we are powerless to scorch your light. Voices rise to distract from your daintiness. The people scream and yell, come and go, but they are incapable of stealing your glory, let alone catch its shadow bouncing off the walls and chipping at the faces of guests. It is you oh Chandelier. You who remains steadfast and immovable, yet moving. Silent, and yet you sing. Fragile, and yet strong. Beautiful, and yet delicate. Modest, and yet shinning.
The PBS Blog 