Words are my art
And my ministry;
I write, I speak,
I evoke, I exhale
Words,
Into the ether;
What comes next
of the symbols and breath I share
I cannot contain,
It is with benevolent intention I infuse
These words
That I trust
Will come to settle
Where they are most needed,
With Spirit,
As the guide.
Tag: Ministry
Called to Move
With so much on my mind
With so much on the world
It’s no wonder I cannot sleep,
I toss and turn,
With no specific thought,
Just a sense of worry,
For the times,
For the unsettled,
For the pained,
My ministerial heart,
Aches,
For past and present pains,
For systemic wrongs,
I long to change,
I am called to move,
Even in the night,
When tired eyes should close,
Should rest,
I am called to move,
Mobilized by my heart,
Pumping blood of my ancestors through my veins,
In and through brown limbs,
I am moved for change,
To actualize the humanity
I have seen in small doses,
On a grander scale,
To see my brothers and sisters with air filled lungs,
Chanting their message of change into being,
We move,
Not just legs,
But ideas,
Beliefs,
Of an equalized existence
Not pierced by the hate and apathy we have seen,
We move,
We move,
We move.
The Good Word
Speak the good word preacher,
To something we can relate,
Speak of hope,
And why this is as such,
The hurt, the pain in all of us,
Hold all our hearts in tender care,
Our dreams, or worries, our despair
Balance with your own self-care
Lose not yourself,
As weight load shifts,
Preach to us,
Of all of this
Capable
I have opened,
And penned my thoughts into sermon,
Though a novice I feel my best has already been,
And I wonder what next I could say,
That would bring to truth,
That I am more capable
Than I can foresee
Who am I to Write a Sermon?
Who am I to write a sermon?
I silently ask myself,
As I settle into my being,
And wonder,
I wonder and it extends to my hand,
Travels down through my fingers,
That now itch with a need to write,
To write words of hope,
Peace,
Contemplation,
Resilience,
Awe,
Transcendence,
And then
Breathless with completion,
I stare down at my work in wonder,
Who am I to write a sermon?
(Here In) Solitude
Solitude,
I sit alone blankets covering legs
As I prepare for night’s rest,
And still my tongue is restless,
Unworn from speech,
My mouth is an empty cavern capable,
But speechless,
Instead it is my brain,
The vessel that has been tasked with laborious burdens,
My mind that has tumbled and wrestled with the day,
And yet,
At the day’s end,
It is my mind that longs for the comfort of a used mouth,
For the melodic hum of vocal cords,
But yet there is very little of this song here,
The mind is alone,
With no accompanying music,
The mouth stays in silence,
But for the occasional chewing on idle tongue,
All are in individual silos of solitude,
As am I,
In my bottom bunk,
In an almost empty room for 10,
Thus begins, and begets,
Life of the minister in making,
Here in
Solitude.
She of Letters 