Favor is a Foreign Tongue

you think that being a cynic
is the way to beat your leering childhood
and your burned hopes and dreams
in the ash of your home.you think that anger and bitterness,
formed in the roots of cussing and cursing what you used to love
is enough to claim your identity,
your personhood that no one let you have
for so long.
all your kicked-aside ideas that were your own,
all your fought-over beliefs that were overwritten to manipulate your mind
and I was angry too
at the state of the world
a three-year storm raging
that never expired
I know we aren’t the same
and I don’t want to pretend
but I think, maybe
adulthood, to you, is the ability to not be taken in by anything good:
gullibility was a personal curse,
and between sins of mother and father
all you have
is your trapped anguished self.
brokenness was too much,
unfair of a loving God.
so obviously, this broken world
means that He has abandoned it for the next.
there is only the burning rain.
and I don’t have words to make real
how the world is broken — but not just that.
the world is haunted by beauty:
full of whispers and hair-raisings and echoes
and yet you stopped listening to ghosts and peace
amidst pain and anger and the burden of others’ happiness around your neck.
you can scream and try to write your way out all on your own but can you write your own salvation, your own rescue from a raft?
this world was not our cross to bear.
this place is His. and He does not call us dead, though we walk among death.
He split open a tombstone.
He does not call you worthless.

peace will never come from chasing anger and pain and absorbing it. He already took the wreckings of sin.

You can crawl out of
the graveyard the asylum the bone-rattling hatred
broken but alive.
you can find a stream of water and put down roots.

come and drink from the water again.
come be a child haunted by beauty again.
come run in the fields again, into the green and gold.
come love without fear and accept love without a price, without bribes or bitterness or twisting of hearts.

He calls you and I worthy (even with busted-up hearts).

For Further Reading
Invisible Vastness
God-Forsaken Place
When Rocks Cry Out — A Letter

unsplash tornado lightning
Photo by Lucy Chian on Unsplash
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my italia

i named my poetry journals after a country i have never seen.  i guess because of the wanderlust, or maybe because the name represents something bigger, something beyond.

i named them all ‘my skye,’ after the isle.  it’s the faerie-dream i caught, once.  and i see pieces of it everywhere.  every time i cram my sock-covered feet against the floor of the plane as it runs into the air, thin metal tube, i start looking.

this is what i saw.

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Why I Choose Doctor Who

And why I deem it worth using up the rest of my voice to talk about it in the car after I stayed up too late watching the 50th anniversary at a friend’s house.  And why I deem it worth writing about today, when my head feels like styrofoam thanks to allergies (and thus shall all hate mail be forwarded).  To be clear: I’ll try to avoid spoilers in this post and speak in generalizations.

Continue reading Why I Choose Doctor Who

Flickering Lights

Sometimes I can see the world lit up.

Sometimes I can name pencils, and colors, like “handwritten notes” or “Saturday morning” or “ocean brontide” or “laughing because you know.”  Sometimes I can laugh at how small I am, at the stripes of color in rock that span and double until I am in a mere thunderclap.  Languages, new words I cannot pronounce, lift my head and sharpen my eyes as I try to taste the sound.

Sometimes words are so easy.

Continue reading Flickering Lights