#Micropoetry Monday: Faith & Spirituality


He preached to the masses
of their filthy rags of righteousness,
but it was when he preached the “Happy Texts”
that his people saw less the ugliness of man,
& more the beauty of the Divine.

They were not found in Salt Lake,
nor in the Church of Scientology.
They were not found in buildings,
nor in any book or prophet.
To know Him
was to know His Words–
words that had been translated
so many times,
that the person who sought Him
tried to make sense of what was left.

God was everywhere,
whether or not we chose to
drink Him in.
His DNA infiltrated our cells—
He had taken His image,
& made copies—
worth more than original
every one of which He paid
the highest price for;
though some would sell themselves
to the lowest bidder.

I’ve lived a thousand deaths such as these,
but the only two that will matter in the end,
will be the one that separates me from this earth,
& the one that reunites me with the God
whose work behind the scenes of my life
I recognize as per His direction.

When they eradicated all of the mental defects,
they eradicated the physical.
When they had done that,
they eradicated the ugly,
but in place of beauty,
there was only coldness,
& no one left to save
or be saved.

“For he shall grow up before him as a tender plant,
and as a root out of a dry ground: he hath no form nor comeliness;
and when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should desire him.”
(Isaiah 53:2)

#Micropoetry Monday: The Writer’s Life


Subject & Verb had a disagreement,
for Dynamic Verb believed it was superior
to Static Subject,
until Verb realized that without a vessel,
his work could not be done.

Colon was feeling plugged up,
Comma, overused.
They walked into a bar,
where they ran into a few Grammar Nazis,
joining their party.
That night, they conceived the Semicolon,
who kept them merry with her many winks.

Haiku was reflective–
a woman of few syllables,
a mindful minimalist,
a practitioner of Zentangle;
Limerick was a jolly sort–
the intellectual equivalent
of Knock-Knock jokes–
& was full of puns & fun.
Between the 2,
they coexisted,
realizing even though they were
from different cultures,
they were both still poetry.

She grew up on Mother Goose,
coming of age with Dylan Thomas.
She still saw the worth in the former,
for it fostered her love of poetry–
a love that would lead her to the latter.

He was a 52-story anthology,
she, a full-length novella.
Each had something to offer the reader:
he, short-term gratification,
& she, total immersion.

#Micropoetry Monday: Mystery


The lines in her face bespoke of hard times,
the smell of her perfume,
of better times,
the cadence of her voice,
the very best of times.

Her profile picture was that of her beautiful aunt overseas,
her profile, that of her imagination,
& everything she did, someone else,
somewhere, had done,
so that when someone came knocking,
they knew not who she was.

Every holiday, her son had sent her a postcard & sometimes a text—
but he’d died long ago, & another man had picked up where he’d left off;
where, she could not tell.

Like an unopened letter in a post office box,
she waited for someone to read her,
& when someone did,
it gave a glimpse into a girl’s elaborate world of hide-&-seek.

His wife had been a mystery,
whereas he was an open book.
When she was solved,
he closed himself up.

#Micropoetry Monday: Nature


Spring was the baby that grew up green,
Summer, the girl that burned blue,
Autumn, the lady of Calico,
& Winter, the snowy governess
of the spring babe.

Rosemary was a spring chicken,
Dill, a summer squash.
Thyme was a winter memory,
& Basil, a Beat Poet,
falling from the womb
too late.

There was something for everyone—
majestic blue mountains,
beaches of white or brown sugar sand,
the painted deserts of Madeline O’Keefe,
wide open spaces of Andrew Wyeth,
for it was a nation of immigrants–
all of whom could all find a piece
of what they’d left behind.

The stars were like white diamonds,
the water, a liquefied jewel,
the sand, infinitesimal crystal balls,
for in each,
was a world.

She was not homeless,
for her home was Planet Earth.
The clover grass was her bed,
a stone,
like Jacob’s,
her pillow,
the brook,
a cleansing bath.
The moonshine was her lullaby,
the sunshine,
a gentle nudge to wakefulness.
It was a home without walls,
& a ceiling without end.

#Micropoetry Monday: The Lighter Side


When Georgia Peach moved out of her pit
to the seedy Big Apple,
she, who’d always believed less was more,
found that a lot less cost a whole lot more.

Plus was North, South, East, & West,
Minus just floated around;
Multiplication was a sign of the Times,
& Obelus was known as the Morse Clown.

Sir Benedict was a good egg,
always on the sunny side,
though sometimes he got scrambled
when he fell out of his shell,
though he could be hard-boiled when unwell,
when his chicken-hearted mother,
who was bit on the easy side,
would coddle him,
basting him with a soup–
courtesy of one of his relatives.

Peter Piper pied a peach,
but when he tasted razor burn,
he made some scrapple out of apple,
its cyanide seeds giving him heartburn.

When Lucky Penny met Dollar Bill,
she didn’t give a plug nickel for his 4 quarters;
& when he saw how she be,
he no longer gave a dime.


#Micropoetry Monday: Love Comes Darkly


They each lived a double life,
sharing the secondary one.
They each had a spouse,
who knew not what their other half did,
for their lovemaking
was merely the tapping of keys.

She’d loved a 0;
a 10 had loved her.
Because the 0 had come first,
she lost The One.

She had been raised to put her marriage first,
& in so doing,
she had put herself second.
Her children could never imagine a Father’s love,
having never seen it in their own.

She married him for security & got love;
he married her for love,
but because he couldn’t give her security
in anything but his love,
she changed providers.

No one knows everything about the one they love,
but they can choose to love what they know,
& when what they do not know is revealed,
they have the right to make a second choice.


#Micropoetry Monday: Things We Set On Fire


She blurred him from every record,
burned every photograph,
the ink dripping off the page,
mixing with the ashes at her feet,
but it wasn’t till he returned to the earth
in a pile of dust,
that she was able to breathe it all back in.

One man discusses climate change,
the other, pro-life policies.
Two futures—imminent & distant—
the former, having affected his ancestors,
the latter, his descendants.

It was a book of drunken incest,
& admonitions for slaves
to obey their cruel taskmasters.
There was the genocide of children–
rainbow promises that never again
would God destroy the earth with a flood,
but rather,
with every other thing.
It was the story of a jealous God,
a God who played favorites,
but a God who sent His Son–
a better version of Himself.

For here lies the Morgan family memorial–
the Morgans,
who lived together by choice,
who died together from having that choice
taken away,
& whose ashes,
in the same vessel,
were scattered–
death imitating itself.

When they lost their wealth,
they softened their conservative values,
for to accept help long enough
was more important than making
what was already hard,
harder than it had to be.