Space, this is how I want to fall in love.

Space, this is how I want to fall in love.

I want
Utter closeness and respect, a safe assurance, and a trusted feeling of acceptance, rested in permanence.

I want
the sensation of new tradition, international beauty, mosaic art and century-old wood.

I want
the seduction of craftsmanship, the eroticism of a cal-king, the commitment of a waterfront view and the affection of dimmed lighting.

I want
the morning flirtation of rain showers, clapping music of tropical drops on elephant leaves.

I want
the contradiction of sand between my toes and the mediation of a coastal breeze on my back.

I’ll stand between the warmth and history of white stones
And pay my homage with shuffled steps of fine gravel, glittered walkways.

I’ll eavesdrop on murmurs of fountains
And gossip in the evenings behind the candlelight.

I will sleep with Adventure beside me
And dream of another day that is solved in this Space.

Space, this is how I want to fall in love.

In the courts, in the pavilion

In the courts, in the pavilion

in the center with my God

Behind the gate, as His daughter

Sings and sighs, with letters and

chatters to her Father.

I am telling Him stories

and He listens patiently

Allowing my laughter and

Amazement fill His room.

He talks with me  in a steady

gentle voice called Forgiveness

and wipes away my tears with Grace.

I contend.

He corrects me in His Mercy

and I sit up to play a new song for Him.

 

A Loving Home

           a loving home
 where energy is protected
 streaming acts of kindess
 where we feel we could get help
 where the mind clears
       the body rests, works,
 extends, explores
 souls are energized
 hearts are mended
              fixtures are new and pleasing
 food is cooked wholesome
              served with care
 cleaning is a form of meditation
 organizing is easy and fluid
prayer is second nature – fervent and effortless
 forgiveness isn’t a chore
 cheering and creativity are rampant
 emotion is jubilant through original songs
trained to host the wounded & confused
 select random adventures to enjoy the night sky
           industrious and forceful in the
 the business and busyness of love.
 wooden “aloha” sign above your head
 “welcome” mat of sea grass at your feet
 Come inside, Beloved.
 Build this home.
“She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness.” Proverbs 31:27

My Beloved – Contemplation of Honor

My Beloved,

Is it passing your belief that God led me to cross the ocean at such a young age, to expose me to the love and art of sound that you know so well?
Was it only the angel’s clumsy coincidence that I swim through turbulence, only to immerse in books and stories that equal my conversation with you now?
Even recently, do you overlook the orchestrating of the Great Conductor, who removed things that served as my distraction, only so I could focus on our own wandering thoughts?
Have I come so far, to be devoured for one weekend and be delayed in time?

Would I wait, Beloved, until your work produces enough satisfactory paperwork for you to file? Would you wait, Beloved, until I am equipped to make the same drive you do?
All the while, are we busying ourselves with sensibility, and sacrificing the life that is “ours?”

How much longer do we have?
How many points do we each need to earn?
How much of each other’s cares must we take seriously, before we act?
Have I already made the promise and not told you?
Am I so foolish or faithful to do so?

What is Honor to me, Beloved? Or status? Or title?
Haven’t I grown beyond that?
Haven’t I grown to fill it?
What are presents and rings, flowers and chocolates, that show me my importance?
Would it be knowing you breathe deeply in the night and your knowing that I wake slowly in the morning?

What have I to study but righteousness?
What have I to sing but patience?
What have I to plant but devotion?
What have I to write but love?
What have I to listen to but your promise?

You choose how to honor me.

Lovingly,
M

[Originally written 7, September 2009]

Cleopatra in the Quiet

Cleopatra in the quiet
Bathsheba on the rooftop
Backseat weapons keeper
Of your leather with your guns cocked

Be I Eve after the serpent
The harlot at the gate
Clutch me with my skirt up
Breathe hard and heavy 
When you wake

Sugar sure between my hips eh
Summer salt lust in my throat
Mark your fingerprints in places
In my spaces down below

Hungry reachin’ 
From your pocket
Pull up right behind my question
We been jamming justice
For an hour
Come undo my disposition

It’s a little nasty and I love it
You answer thick and ready
For the storm
Forget that other birthday cake
I keep this batter warm.
**  **  **

What Did I Do To Get Here

What did I do to get here?
Now, what did I REALLY do to get here?
I planned every day.
I specified every goal. 
I asked every question.
I released every doubt.
I looked up at the trees, out to the mountains.
I slept many hours.
I swept much ink.
I counted every penny.
And counted them again.
I saw the end of the path.
I hummed songs while I waited.
I kissed quietly when I dated.
I had my website rated.
I wrote more.
And more.
I prayed faithfully.
I listened to other people.
I followed no one.
I kept it simple, even if it hurt.
I walked. I thought. I tried.
I acted. I hesitated. 
I flew.
I cleaned and kept my eyes on the good things I needed to see.
I watched what I said.
Then I said it anyway.
I got what I wanted.
Then I asked for what’s next.
I got dressed to show up. 
I got jiggy.
I got swag.
I got skills.
I dreamt and I visualized.
I meditated, cleansed and
Separated myself.
I walked away.
I let it go.
I closed doors.
I stayed away from corners
and gravitated to open spaces.
I looked up, looked within.
I looked at Luke 21:14-15.
I chose to stay home.
I woke up at 4am.
I read books. I took notes.
For a deeper cleanse, I “repeated steps 1 & 2.”
 
I argued. I hated. I apologized.
I forgave…eventually.
I stepped forward.
I took the stage.
I never looked back. 
“Let all things be done decently and in order.” I Corinthians 14:40

 

If I Can’t, Baby Girl

I can’t explain it, Baby Girl,
..why the calls get infrequent and it’s weeks with no word.

I can’t soothe it, Baby Girl,
.. you’re longing for father’s touch when you wake from a bad dream.

I can’t comfort you, Baby Girl,
..that you won’t feel lonely when your friends argue with their fathers and the space behind you is empty.

I can’t announce it, Baby Girl,
..when your maiden name changes ink to another gentleman’s and we hope that he’s 25% more than..

I can’t complete it, Baby Girl,
..when he orders your pizza with sausage instead of extra cheese..because he doesn’t know.

I can’t forecast it, Baby Girl,
..that the reality of your statistic is that your success rate is cut in half.

I can’t secure it, Baby Girl,
..that you can’t trust him to be on time for the daddy-daughter picnic, again.

I can’t clean it, Baby Girl,
..to kiss off those tears when you come home with no guidance from a broken heart.

I can’t prevent it, Baby Girl,
..when those lions seduce you and his voice isn’t there to guard your livelihood.

I can’t correct it, Baby Girl,
..because the image of his carelessness is scolding you with blind and disregarded love.

I can’t bring it down, Baby Girl,
..how you adore him and he’s bigger in your heart because he’s not in your every day.

I can’t account it, Baby Girl,
..how his latest minx is now the object of his affection.. and time.

But I will tell you this:
Loneliness and solitude have their own catharsis
And your only release is through God’s channel.
God answers any man’s shortcomings, including your father’s disappointments
Photos of your baby days, Discipline of your teenage years
Will amount to fierce argument of your womanhood.

In all the things I can’t do, Baby Girl, your Heavenly Father has positioned your prayer, experience and character so you can say:

”I CAN”

“For all they did cast in of their abundance but she of her want cast in ALL that she had, even all her living.” Mark 12:44

Better Absent at Reggae Fest

Sun on my skin, breeze blowing in the outfield.
Lying in the warm, kissing light of the festival.
I couldn’t have him here. He hates the sun.
The familiar rhythms oozing out of the speakers, that steady beat and shake of dancehall. It’s monotonous to him. He probably hates that, too.
That’s why he’s not with me. That’s why I don’t take him places that I enjoy.
Then he’d hate everything if he’s uncomfortable.
Then I’d hate him for having to listen to it.

It’s a manageable scattered sea of people, vibrant summer colors, tank tops and dark Rasta shirts. Licorice root vendor and the recycling volunteers, wearing a lei of plastic bottles around their bodies. Go green, Rasta.

The women, strut their tightest festival gear, with open-toed sandals, dancehall high heels and Caribbean earrings.
Signature midriff shirt.
Ankle-length, halter top summer dress.
The delicate fusion of appearing “earthy” and “available.”

The men, parading themselves and sometimes their women.
Stylish shirts that might be new, gathering with their friends as if they had someone to choose, a decision to make, a mating dance, all done in the festival sun.

You can tell a lot about a man from his walk.
And here they were, gliding down the path from the stage.
Through the maze of blankets and last-minute picnics.
And they stroll.
Broad shoulders and wavy hair.
Strong jawlines and working hands.
But they are empty steps – with no purpose or standing.
Energetic bodies of vain promises.
An arena full of nothing.

No wonder the women are vigilant, alert in their feminine fashions to signal the parading male who will parallel a good life with the fierceness of his stride.
No wonder the men are frustrated.
This is where their women go – looking, window-shopping and exposing.
No wonder the women are suspicious.
To see their men, congregated in observant clusters, watching and studying the sea of listeners and availability, as if they had a course to chart, as if they had a village to protect, as if this is where their manhood boomed.

And I think of him and his complaining.
His sun too bright and the music too monotonous.
And how I’d never observe the ridiculous parade, if he were here.

“Be not deceived: evil communications corrupt good manners.” 1 Corinthians 15:33