Read. Write. Repeat. Aspire to be a Janitor.
Softly now. Let us drown the newborn in blessed kisses. Set it ablaze. Walk with me. Our futures are intertwined like threads in a Persian tapestry. Rising and falling, upright stubbornness and downtrodden humility, tresses and curls, dresses and pearls. Her thick rimmed glasses lay too low on her nose. A branch snaps under my boots. A bright red cardinal eagerly looked to and fro in the freshly fallen snow. The weatherman called for freezing rain. We called for another beer.
A raccoon poked its head through the hole in the stairs leading to the porch that looked over the pond. We’re a generation of bowed heads praying over our phones and tablets. Seated politicians. Ragged riches. Life was in black and white before the fifties. Sepia stained coffee tables featuring Playboy magazines.
A white-hared boy tossed a wheat penny into the stone fountain in the middle of the Technicolor garden. Potted plants. Green gardenias. Wilted carnations. Roses cost too much.
The wind in the tree boughs sounds like the rustling wings of the seraphim. The rocking chair in the corner of the room is creeking by itself. The words from her lips were half as sweet as a plump red cherry hanging from a stem. Her eyes were bright. Pink high-tops. Slender ankles. She looked better through a window. I looked better in a looking glass.
Our palms covered our eyes. We loved the sun. We loved the moon. We loved the traitor. We loved the patriot. We loved the lamppost. We loved the fire. We loved the sticky ice cream running down our wrists. We loved you. We loved me. We loved the soft scarves. We loved the paint. We loved the heat radiating off the pavement. We loved the contours in the walls. We loved the birds and the bees. We loved the pillars. We loved the idea of love. We loved the piles of shingles behind the barn.
Try to say it again. Say it softly now. We woke up to the midnight sun. We fell asleep on the train. Our path opened like the pages in a book. Everyone in the pool hall chanted the words of Don’t Stop Believing. The key changed and our hearts exploded.
Walk by faith and not by sight. We ran into the door.
The whippoorwill’s silhouette caressed the blades of grass. The morning dove’s song echoed in the glen. “I’ll be right back” said the river to the shore. “Don’t forget about me.” He looked back at me with begging eyes. I looked the other way.
The sun glared off the windshield. It hit me in the eyes. I saw a bright spot for hours. The wine left a stain in my shirt. Our lives are ink-blot tests and we see mammary glands everywhere.
I pirouetted with my tongue sticking out to catch snow flakes. My face shined like gold. My arms outstretched to embrace the universe. The universe turned its back on me. I shed a tear and mother nature rubbed my back. Dandelions hugged by bare legs. Her sweater caught my beard and her leggings caught my eyes.
Dust settled in the corners of the painting’s frame. A squirrel laughed at me from a phone line. We were beautiful.
Bridging the Ecclesial, the Academic, and the Political
"Surely I am more stupid than any man, And I do not have the understanding of man. Neither have I learned wisdom. But, the knowledge of the Holy One--that I know." Proverbs 30:2-3
Because poetry. And petals.
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from Morgan Bradham
Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks.