My Theology.

I believe in an attentive ear that seeks the somber sound of crying in a dark and sightless night. The truth in hearing and believing a life beyond one’s own beating heart is a religion of its own. If faith is mandatory, I’d rather believe in the pensive mind that yearns for justice; a law not written by man, but inherited millennia ago from the sky.

As you believe in God, I believe in a love for life so strong that no small flower be set to a flame. My deity is the beauty of an unkempt green valley, and the dandelion seeds that form clouds upon the horizon in a hot summer gust. As you believe in angels, I believe in the mindless creatures that roam the world with hope in their hearts of falling in love – those silly things are so romantic, they brim with more hope than could ever be discovered in a mine filled with diamonds.

Your belief in heaven is comparable to my belief of a sunny afternoon under a pale blue sky, somewhere far away from the city where I can hear the cicadas and the bullfrogs. There are no gates here, just a noisy silence that raptures me in a way that no psalm ever has. I can read catharsis from the cumulus clouds, or hear a chorus in the little things that live in the loam. What we have in common? We both call our heaven our home.

But what about hell? Well, I don’t believe that exists as long as there is another day. For there are days, nights, weeks and months that I lie awake with teary eyes. There are days that I wish I could simply stop my heart-beat on demand. The heat under my skin is comparable to the literature that describes the underworld, I suppose, when I feel this insatiable need for something, for anything to bring a chill to my fiery anger, or my branding sorrow.

Although I know that it won’t be for ever. Each time I watch the clock, and the arrow hits one minute prior midnight, I know that shortly there will be another day. As the seasons shift their way around the cyclical conundrum that life is made of, one spring day I’ll see my deity, one summer day I’ll fill my heart with hope.

Even in the season of the dead things, the fallen leaves remind me of the hearth of a cozy home. Though I may brood alone, I know that 11:59 is the truest worship time. Idle and fatigued I bide the time, the sixty seconds that always drags my atheist heart out and gives it a moment to practice religion – one second at a time.

Never Lie to Me.

I don’t need your sympathy, your crocodile tears or tactically rendered remorse

Your woven lies knit of loose details, your poorly conjured fairy tales

I don’t need your empathy, summoned from the deceitful realm of your mind

If your votive is of a malicious motive, I’d rather you never be kind

Contain your sins within your clenched teeth and hide your fallacies from me

Let them die away like an untended flame, lest the sparks of your words maim

What I want is what I need direly; which you anxiously hide from me –

The bright and blue and beautiful truth.

Never lie to me.

Rainbow Rouse

Red lipstick makes you think I want you

I wear all black simply to daunt you

With pink flowers to awaken your gaze

And let you imagine my innocent days

Brown eyes to watch you wake

Under heavy lashes, to filter your face

Blue days in a cloudy haze

With white cotton clouds to give us shade

Yellow sun and silver moon

Mixed with the orange and violet late noon

Green grass after the storm

Reminds me that I have no need to mourn

Grey everything; a forecast forlorn

I can’t see your silhouette anymore

Just light and dark shadows in monochrome

And the glistening road where I seek my way home

All of the colors that I know

Couldn’t form a scene where I hold you close

In the damp air, a sunlit rainbow

Promised me the floodgates will close –

I’m still waiting.

 

 

 

 

Oh Star, Die Tonight

Upon a glowing satellite I make a morbid wish tonight

With teary eyes, I hope to make a pagan sacrifice on her life

I’ve never seen a star fall, but I confuse the flashing lights of jets

In the midst of their midnight flights, but I’m disappointed by yellow lights

Hear me, clearly, white plasma being in your angelic glow

Fall down from your reign and ease my pain

Use your thousands of years to alleviate my fears

And take your brilliant heat to melt things frozen in my memories

Not unlike you, I want to be born anew

I can’t fight the hurt and lies that have passed before my eyes

I can’t wear away the scars that speckle my skin like black stars

But you… lucky you, you still shine true through the darkest dusk

You have no surface to be succumbed to rust, to negligence or dust

Though in time your flames will explode and you’ll be mine

You’ll fall so rapidly, your tail will spread for miles against the sky

And I’ll be there, I swear, to make my wishes come true

But tonight you live, and I have no use for you

 

Yet I fear the day you pass away, and I’m not there to pray

And ever worse, I fear you’ll pass away

And all of my hopes will dissipate along with your silver flame

Earthquakes!

Faces.

Bits of age old places; barbed wire fences in smiling braces.

Furrowed brows the farm-rows before the crops,

Teary eyes the waterfalls and then the sparse rain drops.

Earthquakes!

Hearts shudder and pound violently out of control.

Sparse flaws on the skin; soft little knolls,

Moon craters, crevices and sun-spot moles.

Folding ocean surface ripples, delicate creases and wrinkles.

Bright eyes, starry skies, glittery make up and colorful dyes,

Algae blooms’ impending doom and faint hair highlights – plant-derived.

Summer breezes sighs of delight, warm breathes and sun-bleached sights.

Earthquakes!

Panicked shaking, tsunami waves and crippling fright.

Morning dew on green grass blades, beads of sweat on blushing faces,

Bird songs echoing in the day, melodies repeated on radio stations.

Your smile: so eternal, eroded into the mountainous region.

Earthquakes….

My heart still tremors. Your smile remains after all of the seasons.

Things with Wings

photo

These trumpeting geese wake me every day. Their deep voices carry in the foggy morning rain.

I ponder upon how it is that many things with wings found light ligaments in place of their feet:

A bat is just a rat that finally took flight to escape the plight of the destitute streets.

A caterpillar would be a worm, but at some point it learned that beauty could be found underground, or buried deep in a cocoon.

With silk woven without a loom the worm still weaves the softest cloth. So why do we think the butterfly is so much more beautiful than the moth?

Its dusty wings are dull and tattered like our neglected things atop our mantles, or the wardrobes’ cobweb-laden wedding gown

Left with whimsical memories of the freed doves – and the dove is just a pigeon that we love for her soft, white down.

But does the pigeon know that we see her as a clown? Why is she the pauper while her sister wears the crown?

And lastly, the crying girl who leans over her balcony finally dives into the sky with her good-byes damp on her pillowcase.

She didn’t fly then, but found her wings in the pile of things discarded from her room shortly after her guest-less wake.

Her body slumbered, forgotten, slowly sinking to the bottom of the geese’s’ foggy lake

Where the vultures can’t find her and feed down to her bones; where all of the things with wings can never travel, she rests alone.

But in the sky she’s learned to fly with the bats at night and the geese at dawn, and through the day all of the things with wings preen her feathers and sing her songs.

The same things who couldn’t grow wings carry on. Undaunted still, though not yet angels, they simply meander along.