Monday, September 18, 2017
The lightning strike and roll of thunder were so close as I walked into the house this afternoon I could smell the sizzle of the air and my teeth vibrated in my head.
I paused just to smell the crisp tang of ozone frying the air.
Perhaps I paused too long, but I never felt more alive.
Tuesday, September 5, 2017
Rip the lid off this thing we call poetry and let the real feelings flow through. After all, it's not about the words written in black ink on white paper. It's about the red dots and water marks of tears inscribed beneath the lines. do we need rhyme scheme and rhythm and iambic pentameter to allow the feelings to drop from our lips on to the paper. or do we need the thoughts and feelings of our hearts left to scatter across the page and drop like so many tear stains to water the roses of our lies?
Sunday, September 3, 2017
Unknown 1858- April 6 1883
Born in Missouri a slave died in Massachusetts free
Give praise to Him who dwells on the highest plain.
Give praise to Him who guides your feet in the path away from prison.
Oh, give praise.
He saved my soul from sin when my body and spirit were broken by the whip.
He gave strength to my feet despite the slashing of my heel.
He guided me under the stars.
The Guide Star.
Until I could find my way on my own.
I could feel the comfort of His spirit as I followed the muddy waters of the river from house to house.
I heard the searchers and knew the path the baying dogs would take.
Once or twice I even saw the shadow forms of His protectors wiping all signs of my footsteps out of the dirt as I followed the trail to freedom.
Words buried in Hymns of praise guided me when I knew it was time to run or face death.
He opened my heart to love even my enemy.
He gave me the strength to work until I could earn enough to buy my wife and my children from their captors.
My beautiful Maisy. My son, who was named for me. My daughter who had the face of the master but was still the flower of my heart. All saved by the sweat of my brow and the callouses on my hands.
I prepared the path for them as my God prepared the path for me.
Every once in a while a line will pop into my head and I find myself needing to write it into a story. My most recent line: I will die a ...
Queen Delina of Pridonia pulled her brush through her long, raven hair. She wanted to pull all the knots from the nights sleep out of her ...
Why do you write? I write to release the thoughts in my head. Sometimes the stories spring from the darkest part of my soul. sometimes th...