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?
Tag: poem
To the Wonder
To the light I go,
Drawn like a sapling to it,
The wonder is known.
The Shuffle
He always shuffles the deck,
So fast I can’t see
The cards changing places,
Were this just a game,
My heart wouldn’t race
As he sorts,
I know he will win,
He always will,
But I always play to be near, anyway.
Flora (Sensual Beauty)
I miss walking through the gardens,
I took for granted all the fragile beauty that laid right within my step,
I miss the sight of blossoms full in springtime,
Displaying and reminding of my own fertility,
I miss the smell of fresh aromatic flowers,
eagerly hinting to be held gently and brought closer,
I miss the closeness to flora that made me feel ethereal, beautiful,
Otherworldly as I walked through this domain of sensual beauty.
Dream On, Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Day 2020
This day of remembrance,
Year Two-Thousand-Twenty,
I wonder if Dr. King knew where we would be?
Would he have imagined a past black president?
The rise of fascism?
Renewed imperialism?
And neo-nazis?
Would he have imagined innocents in cages,
At our nation’s borders?
The threat of another new war?
Would he have imagined? …
I am sure he could have imagined,
But he also would imagine the struggle,
To rise up against hatred and bigotry,
To aim for the “beloved community”
He knew was perpetually in the distance,
It was always a dream,
A dream you can’t quite touch,
But a dream you can’t take away,
With bullets and bombs,
A dream can be reimagined, shared, Reinvigorated,
A dream you can keep dreaming,
If you have the will,
A dream is like a virus,
Inspiring it can spread, and spread,
And take hold of the system,
If not now, then when?
Our dream was his dream,
A dream reimagined,
A dream for our time,
A dream when black lives matter, unquestioned, undoubted,
A dream when immigrants, refugees are free,
And find promised land in the arms of their brethren,
A dream when brutality is not from our law enforced protectors,
A dream when “-isms” are not blind,
And don’t exist at all,
A dream when new divisions are not erected to substitute the old,
A dream we all feel the need to dream;
dream on.
A Star Over a City Sky
City sky is foggy
with light and smog,
Stars are sightless,
But I am not,
I peer above the roof tops,
Knowing what I am looking for,
Evidence of the star that kept my way,
And in the city before,
The star that shines ever brighter uncluttered by urban lights,
Unfiltered,
In the rural open,
But here I seek you still,
And gaze,
determined to spy you,
Sure I will,
Here I can see you
Regardless of the forecast,
Not with my eyes,
But by my heart,
My star need not streak across the sky,
To amaze,
It is a star that moves the body
To an emotion,
With its presence,
A star that is literal and figurative,
In the same moment,
A star that reminds of how small we are,
In such a vast cosmology,
A star that reminds how close we really are,
A star that reminds how we are all made out of its dust particles,
A star that burns
over a city sky.
She of Letters 