#Micropoetry Monday: The Faultlessness of their Stars

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When the learned astronomer went blind,
he hired a foundling—
a lost soul hovering between heaven & hell.
A wealthy intellectual
(which was an oxymoron, for some),
he asked the boy to be his eyes,
to describe everything he saw.
And it was through the eyes of the blind,
that the learned astronomer’s apprentice,
through service to another,
reached his potential.
When the learned astronomer closed his eyes
for the final time in earth-space,
the boy’s eyes had been opened,
for there’d been nothing he’d ever had
that had been of value to anyone,
except to the learned astronomer
whose last sight was feel of the boys’ wet face
in his hands.

She bicycled, upcycled, & recycled,
burning calories,
not waste.
Her collar had faded from blue to white,
only to deepen into green.
She planted herself where she would grow the most–
an environment where she could be her most creative.
And with every ripening
& every reaping,
there would not be an uprooting,
but a replanting,
for she would leave a seed in her place–
ready to help the next person grow
in that place.

As Angel & Demon walked side by side in a parallel universe,
they came upon an impressionable human being
hitchhiking their way through the galaxy–
now standing before that split in the wishbone.
These 2 otherworldly beings were on a mission:
the former,
to gain a soul,
the latter,
a lost one.
The Demon told this being
that all their senses would be heightened
to anything they had ever experienced on Earth;
the Angel said that what they would experience
beyond the mythical pearly gates
would transcend all senses.
When the human being chose the planet
of the sun rays & the moon beams
over the one of candlelight & firelight,
they realized that they’d been to this place before,
& that the life they’d known had been a scavenger hunt–
where only a minority had figured out
that it was not themselves they were looking for,
but the Ticketmaster with the unlimited tickets
that had already been paid for.

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#Fiction Friday: #Micropoetry from the Book

mormoni

Because Jesus had paid for my sins,
I could not short the Lord–
I had to pay Him back through tithing,
through prayer & scripture study,
through keeping His commandments,
& through good works that surpassed any good
that had ever been done to me.
There was no question that I would pay;
the only question was: Gross or net?

If my answer was different than theirs,
I wasn’t praying in the right spirit,
so I let them believe my conversion was to their Church
& not to their version of the God they claimed to serve.

God’s favor wavered–
the God who wasn’t always fair
but just,
as many Christians claimed.
It would take me many years to realize
that I was glad God that wasn’t fair,
for if He was,
then I would’ve had no place with Him
in the afterlife
for all the misdeeds I’d done.
It wasn’t fair that Jesus had to die,
but God had let Him know that it was the only way
so that Jesus had no choice,
for what was autonomy when you could only escape
the sting of death
by letting everyone else burn in hell forever?

The Word of Wisdom
was not the word of the wise.
It was an admonition to abstain from strong drink–
hot drinks & alcohol–
but fried food & all the chocolate cake you could eat
was just dandy.

I lived the law of chastity,
& that seemed the greatest law of all,
but it was through default
& not being devout
that I was still a virgin,
for just being with David
in a non-Biblical way
had always been enough;
he had kept me pure.

#Fiction Friday: #Micropoetry from the Book

Mormoni

The candles in the chapel had burned out,
the smell of sulfur was strong.
I called out to God in the dark,
& He answered in David’s voice.

The Church was the lie that led me to the truth.
Had the Church never happened,
my parents would still be alive—
one living a lie,
the other, just lying.

I had experienced salvation at St. Mary’s—
not through my works,
but through an act of faith
in which a wondrous work
had been wrought in me.

The Church had touched that part of me that was spiritual,
David,
the part that was sensual,
& Mother,
the part that was psychologically fragile,
for I was a doll that had been broken
in many places,
without realizing I had been broken at all.

I did not want to short the Lord,
because for giving His all,
He asked for 10 percent of my income,
a seventh of my time,
& my whole heart.

 

#Fiction Friday: #Micropoetry from the Book

Mormoni

David was divine—
a father, like God,
a brother, like Jesus,
& a feeling, like the spirit
the missionaries spoke of—
the feeling that converted.

The crucifix served as a focus
for my self-induced hypnosis
as I convinced myself that
this 3-headed entity
called “The Godhead” existed.

I saw in God the Father,
a father;
in Heavenly Mother,
a woman of awe & mystery,
& the mother of the One who saw me as His.

I had just now given myself permission
to believe in something I could not see,
simply because I wanted to.
I was free—free to believe in Him.

I was ready to accept Jesus into my heart,
whether He existed or not;
I accepted the idea of Him,
& when I did,
He came,
& stayed.

#Fiction Friday: #Micropoetry from the Book

Mormoni

My ancestors had brought me to where I was,
even as my descendants would bring me the rest of the way,
for through temple work & perpetuating the gospel
through my future children,
I would save them all.

God spoke to His people
through dreams & visions,
His Word,
& every way indirectly,
through countless translations.

Something spoke to David through his paintings,
for every stroke did not conceal,
but revealed.

God was the Judge & Jury,
Jesus, the Defender,
the Holy Spirit, the Witness,
my own soul, the Prosecution.

Spirits lived amongst us—
holy & unholy,
familial & unfamiliar,
confusing & clarifying.
How was I to discern their agenda
when they all sounded the same?

#Fiction Friday: #Novelines from the Book

Mormoni
White, Protestant, & Republican were the dominant demographics of Green Haven, & those that fit into all 3 categories tended to be the most successful.

Such talk of homes for unwed mothers made me feel as if I had been blasted back to the Fifties, but the Mormons were a relic of bygone days.

Strange how grandmothers would pretend their daughters’ illegitimates were theirs, yet I felt maternal towards my sister, rather than sisterly.

The Schafer home was a Mormon version of the Cleavers, complete with pictures of Ronald Reagan & the WASPy-looking Mormon Jesus.

I imagined Sister Schafer’s mind was like looking at a crazy quilt through a kaleidoscope.

I knew not how to help my pregnant friend, for I’d never even kissed a boy.

What we both knew was that God already knew this little stranger, for the child’s bones had been knitted in the womb by the needles that were God’s fingers.

The idea of hidden pregnancies & secret adoptions was like removing a shiny dust jacket, only to see a stained & battered book.

If a man chose not to go on a mission, he was partly responsible for the souls he could have saved. Salvation was a shared responsibility.

I always wondered, if you were married, how did you keep from outgrowing one another, but then I realized, you grew together. You were grafted into the family tree.

I was one of many girls, all vying for the affections of an elder from the Mormon Corridor. I wanted to be taken away, & then taken.

I shelved the thought of Elder Roberts, like a book I had read as a child & had gone back to, finding I had outgrown it.

I imagined the Holy Spirit spoke through me, but how could that be, when I wasn’t worthy? When I’d yet to be baptized, not born in the covenant?

In my new life as a Mormon, I began to do other things girls my age did. I got a job, working for boiled peanuts; I learned to drive.

Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #420: Elevated

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Exaltation

For I was sculpted from the dust of the earth,
given form,
solidified,
by the Living Water,
sustained,
salvaged,
with the Bread of Life.

My blood can save another person
temporally,
though it cannot save the world
spiritually.
It has not the magical properties
of the Divine.
It never washes away
that which is scarlet to bleach white,
but rather,
it possesses the power to illuminate
any crime scene.

And yet,
I am elevated by the Divine’s
claim on me—
this Deity who chose me
over His Only Begotten—
the Son who sacrificed Himself
so that I all I had to do was ask Him
to forgive me
for forcing Him to make
an impossible choice.

http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/wednesday-poetry-prompts-420