Sleep, Sarah, Sleep Soundly

Halfway to the moon
neither earth nor
stars appear large,
neither earth nor
stars seem small.

Halfway is where we
decide to keep on
or turn back; decisions
cannot wait, forever
seems seconds (too) soon.

Halfway to the moon
I wait for consensual
affirmations. Child in
back sleeps dreamily
and Sarah recants silently.

Halfway to the moon
Sarah and me and child
turn ‘round, heading home.
Stars dim, earth grows.

Halfway back to earth
Sarah grows weary.
Sleep, Sarah, sleep, my
focus remains constant;
we’ll make it home and
sleep safely, dreaming
of a large moon and stars,
till old age deems otherwise,
here on this large earth under
small stars whenever this
western hemisphere turns dark.

Find a category to assign someone and lose the essence of who they are.

Maybe that day back in the summer of ‘94 was just too bright. The sun shining like a million sparkling ocean waves. But back then he stood off in the distance, just a silhouette. I remember that day because we all melted. Pools of hot water that evaporated within minutes. Still, he stood off in the distance, just a silhouette. Some never came back down during July’s incessant rains. They’re still up, somewhere, in the sky, where we all secretly want to be.

The silhouette of a boy grew up not long after that summer. He moved off further into the distance, far enough for everyone to lose sight of him. I swear, though, that sometimes, on liquid summer days, his silhouette reappears off in the distance, just standing. At peace. As if waiting for July’s incessant rains to bring those who took to the skies.

And I suppose if that’s the way the story is to end, I can be at peace, too. After all, we’re all silhouettes standing off in the distance, in our own undefined ways, to strangers watching.

…to a piece I’ve not put up online.

I have answers.
But I have many
questions more.
I’ve always been
the inquisitive type.
Answers draw
lines in the sand;
we’re all divisive;
we’re all contentious.

Boys don’t care.
Girls don’t understand.
Boys don’t lead,
they’ve never been
taught. Girls have
their desire over
their lovers. Tell
me, who’s won?

I have answers.
But I have many
questions more;
be the inquisitive
type, what does
all of this mean?

Youth is wasted
on the young. Ah,
but life is wasted by
everyone, and the
old and young alike
are all divisive,
we’re all contentious.

Fizz Pop

I drew a candy necklace
kind of love. Amused,
she smiled.

I bought pastel straws
in colors unique. With
them she painted a
masterpiece.

I littered the ground
with tangerine drops.
She loved me for it.

The quaint home we
bought had a gate
called beautiful in
the backyard.
We often lie next to it
in the cool of the night
under other-worldly
skies and watch while
big orange bubbles
skip across the atmosphere.
Their glitter lands
gently over our quaint
backyard. She whispers
just faintly enough that
I cannot hear as she
fiddles with the candy
necklace kind of love
draped around her neck.

*Points to whomever names the band clued within*

When I Wake

Pick out one of
the old records
and place it in the
player. There’s a
certain rhythm
to the skips and
scratches, as if
each is its own
story, its own song.
Brew a cup of tea
lie down on the
couch, head on an
arm rest. Is the
brew strong, more
so without sugar
and milk?

God I haven’t heard
this record in years;
it plays just as I
remember, but I
understand it so
much more. Same
words sung, same
instrumentation
arranged between
the skips and scratches;
I’m twenty-seven now,
I was sixteen.

Rain pelts at my window.
The record spins the final
song. An inch of cold tea
left in my mug. Tomorrow
I’ll wake and be thirty-eight.

Dr. John D Street was the guest speaker at church on Sunday. He covered the third chapter of Hebrews.

I’d read that chapter in my devotions earlier last week. It’s funny sometimes how you find yourself hearing a sermon on something you’d recently read.

Anyway, the sermon was excellent. It was reminiscent of some of the teaching I remember from Elim Bible Institute. It’s well worth the fifty minute listen.

On a related note, here’s part of a note I got from someone I used to work with; all of which is true and the latter of which I find occurring with me, too:

…The Lord is good, I am not, and He’s been teaching me so much lately…

Or perhaps it’s more a desire to listen rather than being taught even if the two are inseparably linked.

Update II

Itchy and prickly stitches, oh my!

Here’s looking to Wednesday. Stitches come out. And I get to visit the Infamous for the 4th of July weekend. I’ve promised Miss R to take lots of pictures, perhaps even some goofy ones at that. And perhaps, if the Infamous wants, I’ll make him some goodies or something if he has to work on Thursday. Does he have anything which which to cook? We shall all find out!

Update

You know how sometimes you don’t notice something, or you’re not bothered by something till someone mentions it to you? Yeah, well, thanks goes to the woman who asked about my hand at the Wright Patterson Air Force Tattoo yesterday. I now can’t get my mind off the itching.

And speaking of the Tattoo. I need to complain about something since I vow not to complain about my hand. What an overhyped and underperforming event. In the span of an hour, we had five aircraft flyovers. Five. Yippee. And I particularly didn’t like waiting an hour just to get out of the parking lot. If that’s how my tax dollars are being spent, I’d like a refund.

Move over, Manreeny. It’s my turn to garner sympathy from the family.

Nothing draws coworkers together as does one of them slicing their hand open down to the tendon.

[Untitled}

Songs of Sirens.
Entrancing.
Listening
filling
loving.
I do and I admit
how much I do.

But do I err.
Am I wrong?
Do I sin.

I am caught
in the middle.
Between Sirens
of song and sight
and the faithful
contemptuous
and I, I rather
choose the Sirens.

But do I err.
Am I wrong.
Do I sin.

Forefathers
answer
affirmatively.

But Forefathers
have wedding rings.
They can’t understand.

And that is the
diamond in the ruff.

Sometimes,

when people steal my
cell and take random pictures,

a diamond is produced.

[Untitled]

Where might there be
words writ,
fanciful but simply,
of tales embellished
by time and tellers’ wit?

Who might Shakespeare be
but a dead saint
in a weathered, crumbling
tomb; Solomon knew vanity;
Already Romeo archaically wanes.

But words will only be
an inexpensive art
of coloring every deceit.
Silence be golden, conceptually,
in a world exemplar.