FairWriter

 Glorious grey with your thematic expectations and sudden revelations. Many depend on your bland expression, hoping for a hidden salvation. Are you a subtle manipulator or a passive observer? Your color may not be color, making your theme perplexing. Glorious grey don't pollute the clear water. We find you in ash, rain clouds, and cement. Calling you neutral may not be correct.

A return to the pen on paper. Ink from the soul splurged on a white sheet. Will you consume my smorgasbord of spelling and reprieve? An art that dies will resurrect a need for transparency. Return to poetry. The ache to master the language of the babbling baby. The need to communicate as an adult. Shakespeare expectations meet cliche. I am not a poet, but I write as I grieve.

The wiggly flesh with a waxed hole. Two—trapping the skull. Cotton stuffed inside to paralyzes their only function—to hear. How not attractive your features; how valuable your role. Copyright 2017

In case of a fire, do not use the elevator. In case of rejection, don't run to your father. In case of being lost, don't go somewhere you can be found. In case you lie, don't steal. In case you need a remedy, don't believe. There is news coverage in America that Jesus calls propaganda. Don't follow me.

I have a lullaby for an adulteress. Rest your head, but not next to your husband. Close your eyes and imagine yourself under different sheets. Listen to comforting music while you contemplate your sin. Remember your mother's breast as she whispered you to sleep. And hold onto your pillow while you avoid an accusation from a stone.

Copyright 2017 Tamara Peachy I am naut pregnant. I just have an extended belly from late night popcorn, chewed all alone. I am not having a baby. I just look like I carried a burden for nine months. I am not seeking out a midwife because I don't want to know about pain. I am not taking prenatals because I just have an empty uterus that bleeds randomly. I am not dating because I understand responsibility.

Copyright 2017 I was not made to save the black man. I was not old enough to save the Indian. I can't break down a wall, guarded by intensity, so the Mexicans are no more. I can't let Syrian refugees into my country because such fighters would get bored. I can't stand up for the Irish because I don't drink. I can't heal the sick because we are all going to die. I am a free American, and I can even lie.

There is only hope in this, no mistake. This foundation is sure. There is only hope in this. Every promise true, all glory revealed. If we wait longer, the same end will come. There is only hope in this.

I will His pleasure be. The luscious holiness of His gaze will silence my armies. My cruel boredom and apathy will fall asleep,  waking pleasantly as a lifted voice of desire for wholeness. I will His pleasure be. Crawling out of the mud to dress in royal white as a bridal song. Leaving everything that had me bound to carry His weight till His kingdom more fully come.

The swirl of the cutting knife... the slash of the open wound... heals in body and in soul. The day I look toward comes sooner than the pain. If I remember to lift my face above the beam of flooding water. Will this day be always as beautiful or will another slice bring me to bleed? It matters not now. It matters that today is a good day, not a death.

Suddenly, I have no more past. The hand reaching for more than it can grasp, and suddenly touch. Suddenly, I have all I need to forbid everything I want. Suddenly, the world is straight, not slant. If I wait longer, I will arrive somewhere else. I long to stay, so suddenly I will rest.

He's coming after me. Reigning on the earth. A Spirit of wisdom and revelation. He is searching the earth to find a faithful girl. A girl with a child's laugh and a mother's affection. He's coming after me. To ransom me from the enemy. Zeal in His eyes and joy sealed on His heart. His presence is a warning and a hope. The Spirit of wisdom and revelation. The culmination.

"Mommy, the trees are in hell! Look! Red, orange, yellow like the sun’s fire. Mommy, the tree are burning and can’t last long!" "Leaves rushing to green grass for relief." "The leaves are on fire! Mommy!" "They are burning like those lost souls, baby. What ever will we do? How can we escape the horror of our burning leaves, child? You must tell me, cause I don't know."

Canon my thoughts. Hold those holy and toss those unworthy. Canon my lips. Pressed upon one lover—those keep. Those wasted on another-those forget and deny. Canon my hopes. Those that come to pass—those remember. Those that never—those forget.

I want to die suddenly and all together. Gasp then blood. Not with pillow soft. I will die rock hard like a concentration camp melody. Leaving memory and horror and spirit and fight. Death welcomes tears, and I will willingly set them to cry.

I stare at a fleeting rainbow as the evening robs sunshine. Evening is a thief hiding in gloom, as the bow brushes her painted, hair curls. I stay on the balcony and identify with last breath. Rainbow, you remind me of someone I know. Brown eyes, white robe, and sandaled feet. Fleeting rainbow, I breathe you, the air full of leaving rain. The clouds crowding your space, the white clouds ashamed of your expressive colors. Fleeting rainbow, you are my sweet twin.

His parents named him, Chosen. A gangling fellow, owning no familiarity with romantic love. A determined chap without any regard to rules. A bear of a man with cowardice in his beating heart. He embraced selfishness and loved to rattle cages. He limped like a broken orphan. He ignored good hygiene. Made lame jokes. Lost two teeth to decay. A hoarse voice, which only welcomed a few friends. He grew to become something more because they named him, Chosen.

My love is not your love. My love doesn't dance the same. My love doesn't sing the same. My love swirls to a different wind. My love is a mysterious love that can't be restrained. You want to steal my love and restructure it for your purpose. But, my love is not your love.

I know the words I express do not express me. Limited by the words of man, Babylon confusion. I speak and the words fail. Yet, the praises of my lips never fail. Given to the Creator, reaching His throne. My tongue is evil and restless, but my lungs support the holy, as I sing from a pure Spirit. My words fall to the ground, dead. but my praises raise to heaven.

Adam and Eve. you and I. Treasuring Father’s garden. Searching Eden’s boundaries. Divine pleasure covers this fresh earth like a garment. We cultivate together. Within our discovery,  we know little of rain,  we watch blossoms flourish with its mysterious power. Words spoken, “Let there be…” Moon and Sun. A molding of creation, ending with male and female. You and me. Two simple, naked lovers naming creatures. Discerning the final victory for all human kind, to walk with Him in the cool of the day and to transport darkness to light.