#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.

Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 420

Poem-a-Day 2017 Writer’s Digest Challenge #12. Theme: Guilty

He Shed

His innocent blood
bloodied the hands of the guilty,
running down the grains of the rough-hewn
cross.

It was the crude oil of life,
darkening as the desert heat
baked the platelets sticky—
the soft ball stage—
then into the hard crack.
Candy for the crows.

The splatter pattern was more of a
slow drip,
a trickle
like the river Nile
from Heaven’s view—
an artery that had split,
even as it spilt.

This magic mix of
red and white blood cells
was transfused through hearts
to change them,
to blot out that which no other
human sacrifice ever could.

It was drank in a metaphorically
cannibalistic practice,
following a prayer,
a chant.
A woman’s blood would not have
sufficed,
be it internal
or menstrual.

This blood flowed not like wine or juice,
it was not sweet,
but iron-rich with the humanity
that was in Him—
this alien from another world,
who came back in time
from a world far more advanced—
to shed His blood,
as He had done
for numerous other earths.

2017 April PAD Challenge: Day 12

Poem-a-Day 2017 Writer’s Digest Challenge #1. Theme: Reminiscing

This “personal geography” poem was originally named, “Life, in Five Acts” (like a Shakespearean play).

The stanzas below were merely abstract introductions to much longer stanzas of a seven-page, narrative poem.

Timeline

Spain: 1987
I lost half a sense,
which may have saved all the rest.

Saved: 1996
I lived with myself,
and knew not who I was.

Montana: 2003
I was Molly Mormon,
looking for Peter Priesthood.

Utah: 2004
I lost my faith,
but reclaimed my creativity.

Brian: 2013
And so a woman must leave her family
to create one of her own.

Hannah: 2013
I led her to milk,
but she would not drink.

College: 2014
I feared our future,
so I changed my present.

http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/2017-april-pad-challenge-day-1