Confession From Heaven

Confession from Heaven

as you can see
we have potential

although hearts burst out in tears,
locked behind bars, in chains,
against a will of their own,

we carry every blink used
to wipe away the pain,
we stand guard when the Earth
shakes underneath feet full of breath

breathe easy
we have potential
we have not lost the sunlight
of yesterday,
or the smell of a growing world

childhood kisses are fresh on our
souls

we have not passed
we are not the past

we are your honest future
waiting
for our bound hearts
to hold each other
once again.

He Will Not Follow Me

He swims like a whale,
through life,
inflated,
blubbered up from pomposity.

He is all.
He creates territory
and torture.
I am followed.

To the outskirts, I dream –
puffed up on Winter
drugs, countered
by a pulse
that refuses to let go.

All the while, He is made,
poaching my land,
harvesting my seed….

and then they say it’s HIS plan,
so HE takes it all from ME?….

The season will change again,
as seasons often do,
and I will settle firm
inside the Earth,

where He will never follow.

 

 

A Different Skin

Blue brick stone eyes,
like four leaves, I am in luck.
Liquid doesn’t drip from rock.

Not all skin is the same.
Some grow into cat-o-nine tail,
but you…

you douse poison like a God.

I am witness,
without religion,
without faith,
without hope,

out of the blue,
brick stone eyes
came to me

an old idea –
a different skin
growing on me.

Ghost Plant

One story
up, under a roof,
under a perfect yellow moon,
I wait.
I watch oxygen expand
into greatness.

Midnight sleeps an ear ache away
from me snoring.
Oxygen starts its engine, then
shuts off again.

God grows in a cradle like a
ghost plant, a living reminder
of what is yet to be dead.

One story
below me, kids are
throwing stones.
An eye for an eye,
till war takes them both.

When tonight catches up, it will
pluck spots from the day until
we sing the song of
the crickets.
I will wait for God to grow
out of his cradle, strike a match
against conscience and finally,
rename me.

I Am Not The Same Size

To speak up on Sunday
when religion strikes like
the back of a hand

would be a sin. To question
a written truth bound
by message and baggaged with
fear

would be unthinkable.
But I do! But I do!

I let those words of hymn drain
slow down my throat,
digesting each He and Him,

and I am not the same size
as my companions in these walls.
I am unworthy.

I am faithless in my tongue
because I cannot taste it.
But I do! But I do!

I am full of confession, I swallow them
like bone slivers after the fasting.

My prayer is splintered by
knees on the floor.
My Dear God, humble me more!

The Bone Yard

I fold my dirty body next to the sun as it falls to sleep across a boneyard.

Our Daughters sleep in there, clinging on to life and on to death.
They strip down to breast and bone for swine,
gnawing on their own skeletons for some Great Man to tame them.

They play in ash playgrounds, burnt down by thieving snakes of virginity.
Our hands can do nothing.
Our Book does nothing.

Our Sons are bound, shackled by veins to elusion.
They strain, barefoot in the desert where demons build their muscles on doubt and hesitation.
Fear is a great interruption to the infant shadows that remain young nuisances
until trepidation grips its claws around their hollow shoulders and carry them away.

And, as the boneyard grows next to me. I lay, with burnt wings, in a chill that never dies.

I Am A Sin By Nature

In truth, I open my eyes.
I am punished
for my power.

I have refused water to dry people
and tied anchor to those who heard the word
and believed it.
I became a burning flame in
bedrooms of strange

men, who desire reward
like Corinthians say they deserve.

I am a sin by nature,
by thought,
by curve,

and undeserving.
I open my eyes.
I am power.
It is true.

The Devil’s Home

The sun lays September to rest,
my single tree quivers
against black canvas, frost steals my breath
and this night makes it hard to be a river.
My moon cannot gaze quick
enough in any direction, I stumble
over boulders, though these dormant feet stick,
one-side of heavy rubble.
Gentle, I offer, white whispers,
(and knuckles), as I lay my head to rest,
because, as he often does, the reaper
shreds nightly peace, to build a home in my chest!

About God

He may kill me
in plain love, He has
done more already.
His words are iron,
a heavy chain crushing
my fight.

I left a sleepy hill
for His voice.
My feet ached with disapproval,
but I went, as a soldier,
and shall we fight?

I hold armour in my lungs,
but my hands are wasteful,
braided together in conversation
with God. I would be proud
if I had it now. I would offer
everything, but question.

Here, He comes!
Don’t be late. I think
we settle on a couch, sinking
into resentment, I feel His chain.
I am not, but is He
free??

The Children In Their Sleep

A woman wrinkles over her chair,
soaked in religion, 
piling God’s children on gravel. 
They eat with her disciples
where bread is dry, yet
milk is sweet. 

I stand by with clover. 
I paint the children green and set them up
as chess pieces. 
Confused feet step over boundaries, 
but it is her game. 

Her weight stomps chicken bones. 
Her voice pours like gravy 
over our heads, till I put them to sleep, 
and the lullaby’s rock me
as I bleach time from my head. 

The woman is asleep
in God’s arms, I rest at his feet, 
and the children, 

in their sleep, sing.