The Boy Who Walked Backwards

The Boy Who Walked Backwards

For as long as he could remember, he wanted to make shoes. Margins of his most-loved childhood books were filled with well-intention-ed and purposeful drawings, and the cover corners were inked in with spins and swirls of shoe prints. Left alone with school work, he copied the lines and patterns of insteps and ankles instead, ever in awe of the heel toe pivot bend of a shoe well-worn, and, hidden in a cubby behind his bed he kept mate(less) shoes he found -- mostly lonely toddler Velcro specials, an occasional sports lace-up, and even one boot he found beside a park bench. Scattered within were the colored pens he used to draw on the their sides, magically transforming shoe to art, and sole into a fiesta of whimsical color.

He loved shoes, but living with this love was too, a soft melancholy. If you asked, he would tell you that his feet were wide, hard to match, and grew so fast that keeping him in shoes that cradled his feet was quite a challenge. He’d tell you of the look of love dressed in anger on his mother’s face when she learned he ruined yet another pair with a barrage of scuffs, tiny tears, and experiments. Or, of feeling his belly unfurl at the site of an almost new pair awaiting him. But most times, his heels hung exposed, his toes pressed, overlapped and aching within for freedom. And sometimes his arches stung and numbed from laces pulled tight to stay his feet from wading inside a too large shoe. And all the time, with his creative cut-outs, fabric additions, and fresh layers of ink he pretended his feet were covered in royalty. And perhaps it was the triumphant soundtrack of kings and queens he heard with every step that drowned out the laughter guaranteed to erupt at the sight of his fantastic footwear.

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Nameless (She)

Nameless (She)

SHE…was a girl of 20 when she realized that her heart had stopped moving. Sure she could breathe, but her inhales and exhales had somehow become mechanical. The quiet song between heartbeats no more. 

She was known as “she” because so many folks had names for her and none were the name she was born with. Folks had deemed her unredeemable very early because she was at once familiar and foreign. Familiar enough to irk her aunties; and foreign enough to put off her cousins. Born a brilliant blue in a field of green she often sat in silence when others frightfully roared. She was a sensitive among thick-skinned heroes. She was dark when others were light, ever long and round in short narrow spaces. But oh so young, and charmed by her own she-ness, she danced in the fullness of herself, naked and free, her cerulean leaps and indigo spins awash in blue beauty.   

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Open Your Heart (To a Miracle)

Open Your Heart (To a Miracle)

Open your heart to a miracle
Open your heart
Open your heart to a miracle
Open your heart

Releasing ones’ fingers 
from the clutches of disbelief we’ve come to know as normal 
(and)
Moving past the un-moving-ness that grants an opening euphoric

Right there 
in between blind and Technicolor clear
Lies a miracle

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A Song of Ascents

A Song of Ascents

This is a song of ascents
And I am ascending
Towards darkness this time
One that leads to the morning and back again
Wailing and waiting and hoping as I wind 

This is a song of true balance
The kind opposites complement
and intertwine
The kind where equal lasts for only a moment
Pausing only to be overpowered by the hope of another

This is a song of living
The kind where being becomes unbearable
and a soul cries for hope

This is a song of hope
The kind where morning comes with redemption
After a long night of waiting

This is a song of waiting
Of finding hope in the revolution of
time
Oh how I have waited
My soul awaits

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Untitled Sermon Inspired by I Samuel 1

Untitled Sermon Inspired by I Samuel 1

It is my job to sit and to watch. And from this place. I see. Now, as many creatures as God has put on this earth, it’s still a wonder that the common places of humanity are so...manied. The way the sun alights the eye in love, or how that same love dances on the lips of its receiver. Or the shuffle of a hurried hip swaying perilously above a foot desperate to dodge time. The set of a shoulder in need. The curve of an imperious neck uncaring of the scandalous words of another. And perhaps that is why she vexed me. Seeing her for the first time vexed me so my back stiffened at the sight of her, my own neck turning - eyelids lowered. Watching. Knowing. I knew her. 

Her gait was at once haughty and labored, both seeming to fight the other for a spotlight. Her own eyes darted here….there behind ever blinking eyes, too, watching...wanting...waiting. The sway of her hips held imaginings of royalty but her butterfly hands called their bluff. I knew her.

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