Long after David finished speaking,
his words were like an echo that followed me,
for they had nestled themselves in the folds of my brain.
He was Professor Dalton to all who knew him,
but David to those who loved him.
He was my father & friend—
he was my everything.
David was a thoughtful artist, a creative intellectual.
He didn’t teach poetry,
he was poetry.
They knew me as his niece,
but we were closer than even a father & daughter—
we shared neither name nor blood,
but an unbreakable bond.
When Mother said she’d never marry him,
I asked him if he would marry me—
if only I got older as he got younger,
but such was an impossibility.
The spiritual sister of ditto,
it lets the pastor know,
just how far he can go.
Feedback from the flock—
a barometer of not just his words,
(cited from narrators,
be they reliable or unreliable),
but also the deliverance of those words,
and his interpretation of them.
The secularism of the divine,
the divination of the secular,
is becoming omniscient,
in this Age of Technological Trans-Humanism.
The man of the cloth
cannot be divorced from politics;
just as the politician
cannot help but marry religion,
for they are two sides of the same coin.
Heads or tails,
no one knows,
which one has more control.
After pushing back on the idea for months, I created an author Facebook page. I had reached the point where I knew I could commit to adding to it twice weekly. (One thing I will never do is send links to it en masse via direct message on Twitter. 99% of DMs are the equivalent of junk mail, especially if you don’t bother to read my description, which clearly states “No DMs, please”. I rarely ever read any I receive, and delete most of them on sight. It’s not that I don’t want to be supportive of other writers, but I don’t like being bombarded with impersonal messages. That’s what your Twitter feed is for.)
Starting this page was quite a bit of trouble, because several profile photos wouldn’t do, as they tended to chop off the lower half of my head (I had to do some creative cropping). I also had to make sure my cover photo wouldn’t be partially obscured by my profile pic. Eventually, it all came together, using my limited online photoshopping skills and neat penmanship (may cursive never die!).
When I hit my blogging stride (posting thrice weekly on a regular basis, as regular, scheduled posting is indicative of a serious writer), committed to writing an original article for LinkedIn once a month (as I am just not as passionate about business/technical writing), and gained a few literary wins under my hat (among other endeavors), I felt I was ready to commit to yet another revolving project.
Please like my page (and engage). Post your Facebook page URL in the comments section below, and I will return the favor.
He loved her for who she was,
not for who she could give him.
He chose the woman, not the womb.
She’d always thought the married
lost their autonomy until she met Her Intended—
who supported her strengths
& strengthened her weaknesses.
She forgot dates,
but not memories;
she forgot times,
but not moments.
He couldn’t give her the world,
but he could share the world that was his—
the children that would be hers.
She built a little bitty house,
but a great big life.
She met an average man,
& became his wife.
She sacrificed her children yet-to-be
for the sake of the child she held
in the cradle nest of her arms.
The love of my life was the love of someone else’s life.
When she passed away,
I became his.
By nature, I was as Mother;
by nurture, I was as David.
It was the water that became thick with blood.
A shiney diney,
nestled in a twiggy wood—
like a silver bird egg,
awaiting a confused golden goose.
Over pie & coffee
we spoke of philosophy,
ancient religions, & dead languages.
Vibrantly alive, yet ashes of the past
poured from our mouths.
Through summer storms & winter’s blue,
through the fall & spring that never came,
Foster’s Diner stayed the same.
White chocolate with a dusting of cocoa
was how David described my skin.
I called him a gastronomer—
for I felt my freckles numbered the stars.
The Voices told him not to take his medication;
they were like angels, God, & demons.
Did he speak in tongues or gibberish?
Had the veil that had been placed over his mind at birth been torn—
the veil the Saints of Latter Days spoke of—
allowed the spirits to slip through and torment him—
extremely frightening and incredibly real?
The drink allowed him the Quiet,
the drugs, the Peace.
He did not know who he was—
either dosed or without the Anti’s.
Was he the man who rambled about invisible hands
stealing his thoughts while he slept?
Or the man who stripped down his cardboard walls
so that he could run away from the Unholy Ghosts
that were his constant companions?
Was he the man who could laugh with the little child
who had tried to practice witchcraft on him—
the little child who had led him astray?
Or was he the man who no longer believed
that the Spirit of Donald Trump or Bill Gates
watched him through the walls that became separate particles?
His parents had passed on an inheritance
that stripped him of his autonomy,
for he was either controlled from the inside
through little chemical rockets,
or from the outside by the cat and canary scrubs.
Code Gray was called,
and he was once again being pulled,
flushed through the bowels
of the bathroom-tiled basement.
Father Time built the bones,
but Mother Nature
added a woman’s touch—
with fur, feathers,
or colorful scales:
The Father was the Author
the Publisher of Beauty.
In Utah, her eyes were opened
to her lack of faith,
but when went back home
to the South,
she dusted off her old testimony.
It was just as she’d left it.
World lapses into
when ancestors are resurrected,
their descendants awake
in a subconscious state.
Birth and rebirth;
Heaven and Earth.
When she got saved,
she grew in faith.
When she became Mormon,
she grew in works.
When she left Mormonism,
she became the best of both.
Her Father in Heaven had been an absent one.
Her father on Earth had been there for her;
yet twas the First who sent the last.