Read. Write. Repeat. Aspire to be a Janitor.
“I see she has royalty in her blood. The way she holds her back slightly arched, chin in. She carries a grace; she flows. Her perfectly toned shoulders press up against her purple sweater. The paleness of her cheeks are accented by the slight blush probably caused by a sensual thought. You can see the same in her eyes.
“The ruffles at the bottom of her skirt flap in the wind like doves tied to a May pole. The skirt is blown forward showing the form of her legs. Her slim but firm ankles are crowns for the beautiful, pearl pink, 3 inch high heals.
“If you listen closely, you can hear the place where her hair stops on her neck calling for my lips. Her waist seems to want to be held by my caring hands. Her hands were twirling her hair between her slender fingers.
“Why? What do you see?”
My friend of eight years looked at me in disbelief. “Uh, just an old hag sleeping in the alleyway.”
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.