The Thing With Wings

Hope.

I have hope.

Chaos whirls like a slate storm sky.

I have hope.

Bricks through glass and wood on flesh and flames leaping into the sky.

I have hope.

Rubber bullets and tear gas billows.

Still hope.

Blood on the streets and last gasps.

Hope.

Rage and fear roll like a tide.

Yes.

Hope.

Though I know that

EVERYONE

Is, on some level Bro Ken,

I still know

That

EVERYONE

Carries a better angel.

Hope is what I have.

It all seems out of control.

I know that God is in control.

And if I have to walk into the storm wall

Or swim against the raging current,

I will

Yet

Have

Hope.

Faith

I strive to open,

to reach and touch,

to spread beyond myself,

to connect in holy union.

 

I strain to breach the wall of my skin,

to break the circumference of my circular thoughts,

to pierce the veil of the joy and fear and yearning that fills me,

to be more than the less that I am.

 

This tiny universe,

this infinite, ever-expanding cosmos,

this Heisenbergian, super-positioned, paradoxical realm of possibility,

Wraps me tight and firm.

I am the island of myself.

 

I dream of bridges but cannot build one.

 

 

 

 

But now for the miracle.

 

The bridge is built

 

 

To me.

 

And once abridged

I open,

I expand,

I overflow the banks of my boundaries

And spill into the worlds of others.

 

Becoming less I become more,

Life to life to life to life to life,

Unto the age of ages,

World without end.

Transitions

Summer fades slow in the South.

The air still burns with the fading passions of the season,

Insistently stalking into September and October.

 

Summer don’t die easy here

In the South.

 

Things hang on, here.

Things cling.

 

Things do die, though.

Things release.

 

Look close.

Peer at the faint edge,

the thin edge,

the razor edge

of the leaf on the tree.

You’ll see change coming.

Senescent browns and golds hovering at the edge of the leaf.

Shivers of cold creeping just beyond the bounds of the skin.

 

This is the precipice.

This is the pause,

the inhale at the verge.

 

I can see the sneaking white.

I can feel the encroaching aches.

 

My whole life

I’ve wanted to fly.

Sometimes,

I think I did.

 

What’s a fall if not a shorter flight?

 

Now comes the Fall.

 

Autumnal life

Autumn rides chill evening breezes.

It is the edge of ice,

The long, slow slide to sleep.

It is the whisper of a falling leaf.

 

Autumn is the riot of color,

The hope and memory of sunlight and hearthlight painted across trees.

It is the scent of spice,

The warmth of cocoa and rich soups.

It is a soft sweater on a clear day.

 

Autumn is memory,

Reflection.

It is the sunset of life.

It is the descent into night.

 

As night falls,

Autumn is the time when the world exposes the hidden grace,

The unexpected beauty that has grown unseen inside.

 

The promise of spring

And the growth of summer

Burst forth in rich sensory passion

To light the long night.

 

People have an autumn.

 

As I move into my night…

 

I hope…

 

I hope that the graces of my life

Unfurl.

 

May I be trees painted in sun and fire

 

To light the long night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Thing With Feathers

I carry my wings along this old road.

A journey of trudging steps,

One by one,

Each taking me to the next.

 

This is the season of tasks.

The season of present,

Now, rather than future.

 

Nothing to see here.

Move along.

 

A to B to C to D to …

 

Things done.

Satisfying, but not enjoyed.

 

Just done.

 

The day of trudging steps.

 

This day like the past day,

Like the next day,

Like the next.

 

One step leads to another along this winding road.

 

Move along.

Nothing to see here.

 

But,

(and salvation comes in the “but”),

One day this road will lead me,

To a place where my wings unfurl.

 

I will be the thing with feathers.

And my wings will carry me.