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And when I shall cross through those pearly white gates, no more shall I suffer, no more shall I wait. They'll size me and find me a gown of great glory and onto my back they'll finish the story.

My wings will stretch low and stretch o'er the streets, like a blanketed bed wrapped in satin white sheets. I'll soar through the night piercing death and it's sting, charting clouds, riding comets, in search of the king. And donning new bones, hair down to my toes, with dress silky lace, a shield to my face. Strung pearls 'neath my chin, and locked round my heart, the king I will wed and ne'er depart.

And cheeks full of rose and lips honeydew, sorrow be vanquished and death be slew. The starving will feed and the lame be freed, will soar o'er the land, a colorful band. Of my land and yours, of this tribe and that, warding off those of the deafening clan.

To live on those streets and fly through those trees, like bees, honeybees, come sweetness, come life.

angels and demons

A creamy, white, sugary substance oozes down the teapot resting atop my desk- almost as if the kettle has burped and vomited the white goo. Kind of like demons, frothing at the mouth, desperate to woo one more.

I miss the way my dog would comfort me when I'd come into the kitchen, slump onto the cool tile floor and begin to weep. He'd hear my soft cries from whatever part of the house he was lying and make his way to mine. Then, beneath me, like an old afghan, he'd catch my tears in his old sagging ears. He couldn't understand the words I uttered. He didn't know who had hurt me or who I had hurt, but he'd sop my pain, all the same, just like water quenching his thirst. And I would carry on, hunched over, damp by my tears and smeared in his drool.

I heard of a war this morning on the radio. The demons and the angels. And sadly, the demons took the lead. A man, in rage, fired at another, and the shot man's daughter saw her father slump to his death. And the blood gushed from his head, like a quiet babbling brook, and the little child, stung by death, hit those demons head on.

The archangel applauded while the onlookers paused, and a flock overhead told of love once said. "Greater is he, and greater he'll be, in the dark hours of death and the bright hours of morn." And echoes were heard throughout all the land, and the creatures screamed out, "death be not shed!" But ripped her he did, with his sash of defeat, and the lamb was then shorn with a deafening bleat. Flesh and white bones, weeping forlorn, the child and the lamb crucified dead.

But Messiah came forth and onto the scene, and spoke to those present, and to those not seen. "My boy and my girl, my son and my own. I, Alpha Omega, hear all but one plea. Now come to my side and drink of my wine. Taste and but see, 'twas broken for thee. Now dine in my love and drink of my river, not to pass by gift or the giver. This chalice I raise, offers life to the dead, a labyrinth of loss will be no more tread."

And when I had stopped, with my bout of great tears, my face shone of mercy and was filled with his ease. Wrapped 'round in thick wool, the naked sheep cries, the child of the father, deceived by his lies. An orphan, a dog, a soon to be liver, this life but a midst, is only a sliver. For tomorrow will dawn, the newness of day, conquering demons and traipsing o'er graves. In victory, white, blinding set sail, onward to heaven, forever prevail!

A Little Bit of Black

Yesterday I decided to go for a short walk. Over an hour and a half later, I was on my seventh mile. And to think, I got funny looks from the people I passed. Yes, I was running. Yes, in funny runners attire. Yes, in jeans, in knee high black leather boots, in fancy blouse, in faded blue sweater tied round my neck, (just like I was rich and famous). But I simply couldn't help myself. The sky, wind, sun, breeze, all that was in the air, declared, evoked, even demanded my attention. But I sure was at ease, trotting along that path, lined with moss the color of undercooked peas.

Perhaps I looked silly, perhaps a bit gay, but no holds were barred in echoing that Day. Twists and wide turns, weaves and bent wreathes, summoned and wooed, my walk to a breeze. My amble became a bit of a run, was done without plan, and thought of but one.

You know what I mean, the drawing of God, the whisper, the call, the altar from sod. That held up the tree, that tore down the curtain, that danced upon Mary, her visiting vision. Winged men I once saw, hovering way overhead, had come to bring solace, to His great, now dead. The choirs sang glory, ther'll be no more mourning, and the trees scattered round, retold his great story.

And where was I now in retelling my story, of a funny young girl, looking more like a bunny. So she answered the trees with their yet to be leaves, and danced right along in those jeans by the peas. Each stride and each draw, each glance and each stance, she soon became lost and drunken in chance. Strands whipping, cutting, the lows of her back, sun light breaking round, a nimbus of Might.

Whipping back, whipping forth, the people did stare, but what shall I profit? What shall I care? Black ones and white, yellow with brown, passing me by and panting aloud. Tangled down deep, the roots of despair, crowding the family and shrouding the hare. White as pure gold, with whiskers like sin, she should have just done as her Good Father did. Thy Good book will tell, a tale saved from hell, salvages beasts and summons the least.

Passing the trees, cocooning the plea's, the blood of the Lamb, slaughtered for peace. Doorposts above, priests down below, daughters of fishers, rigmarole. Like loosing your vision in blinding white sun, an old comfort inn, filled with poor souls and mine. "Hosanna, Hosanna!" The girls then did scream, in hovering presence, he answered their plea. The young ones, the old, the seasoned and stale, they transformed to beauty, with wind in their sail. "To glory, to glory!" with arms like great wings, they soared to his footstool, with mercy and ease.

And bowing to speak, or muster a peek, his greatness so gentle, drew even the weak. Like morning and daybreak, the dance after night, he's conquered with splendor and risen with might. And mile number seven, the horsemen and heaven, she'd finished her stint, revering her bout. Echoes within and screams without, he loved her, he loved her, this was no doubt.

bright as yellow

It all began with some salted nuts. I fastened my safety belt, stowed my tray and tucked my ruby pleather bag underneath the seat in front of me, just as I was instructed. The flight attendants took their places, strapped like dynamite to their jump seats on the reverse of the pilots cabin, and so we began our taxi, leaving behind the Columbus International Airport.

Sometimes I say hello to the people I find myself next to, but on this evenings' flight, my seat neighbor didn't seem too warm nor bubbly, not like the guy behind me on the flight out, who'd slurped down three Jack Daniels just before meeting his wife and kids. And since I didn't have my usual window seat, I tried to make best of the new scenery. Lots of legs, shoes and a carpet lined aisle. Not that exciting. Now I'm remembering why I like the window seats best, but the lady doing Sudoku beat me to it. At least, I tell myself, I'm not the guy in the middle. And he had long legs too.

I said my usual "dear Lord, please guide the pilots, keep us safe" prayer, realising this prayer could be my last, and by 'amen' the plane was bumping along, leaving behind the men with orange batons and Velcro vests, so that they resembled Lite-Brite pegs on a runway box.

Opening my eyes from grace, fixed on the long center aisle, suddenly I felt like I was at a carnival or playing Plinko on the Price is Right. It was amazing. We were now airborne, and as our height and incline increased, so did all the stuff that came gushing down the aisle. Being a regular to the egg shaped, plexi-coated, body smudged window seat, I'd never before had this grand avalanche view- or the opportunity to fish for free bees. That's what it seemed like to me, like bobbing for apples. If you reached down with an open hand (or mouth) at just the right time, you might walk away with, say, a penny, a stick of gum, or maybe even a pen filled with ink. It was like reverse Skee-Ball.

Well tonight the grand prize was a pack of shiny blue peanuts. And I failed to win. (I'm still remorse over it all). And so it unfolded that since the peanut pack was indeed shiny like a rocket, and came crashing past me with such ferocious speed, it called out to me like an itch needing scratched. It was food, and I was hungry. The sky waitresses only pass out two blue packs of peanuts per person, and there are but 12, maybe 13, peanuts per pack. So this flights dinner, consisting of 26 peanuts, was looking scamp, and I welcomed any extra rations.

And so the peanut pack came to a stop catercorner across the aisle from me, under the seat of a boy wearing a baseball cap. And there it sat, next to the sole of his shoe, like it was camped out for the night- ready to toast marshmallows and join in the kumbayas. Since the peanuts were now officially the boy's, (since they were touching his shoes), it seemed wrong to reach across the aisle (so that everyone behind me could see) and take the peanuts from the sole they'd just befriended. Sadly all I could do was glance in their direction, and convince myself that they were perhaps already eaten. It was surely an empty pack of peanuts that had answered gravities call.

But right when I thought the fun house was over, the games all played and prizes passed out, out of nowhere, this canary-yellow Mentos looking thing came cruising down the aisle at optimum speed- right in my direction. I saw it coming from about seat 7B and I was all the way back at 13C. The whole thing, mainly my imagination, was too much to handle, and at this point I let out an audible laugh. I suppose I imagined that the small yellow pod was indeed a miniature space craft, space rider inside, and had just tumbled in from a far away galaxy, and into our own, and for whatever reason this was real funny to me. (I think the guy in the middle was thinking I was rather odd at this point-that I was staring blankly to the aisle, giggling to myself). But I tried not to draw attention to the fun that was undoing itself in the aisle, and instead told myself that the other passengers would think I was just a funny gal with a funny laugh.

Perhaps what made the whole Mentos spaceship thing so hilarious, was that it seemed that no one else on the plane even noticed. Here, this small yellow mint had reached such velocity, such impeccable speed, (and even dodged carry-ons, stowed underneath) and tumbled all the way, light years away, to six-seats-from-home. And landed at the base of my booted right heel. But no one else was laughing, nor was a soul cheering, so this made me, the lone cheerer, audience of one, laugh even harder.

And like the shiny blue pack and the boy with the cap, the mint nestled to my sole, as if it waned to take a nap! But what fun is that? So, with a tilt of my heel, or a click like Dorothy, I set the pod free and it soared all the way to 33B. And there it sits, a cage bird freed, and I just can't stop laughing here at 13C.

20,000 and crooning

between the sheets, warmth sustained. she hoped, she prayed, almost lame. possessed he called, the pigs did flee. rocks cried out as did the trees. and traipsing down the bloodied trail, joy emerged, she did set sail. on the waters, calling out. there'd be no more, this sinful bout. sopping wet, naked, proud. she rose up on that earthen plow. stacks of harvest, golden rod. blinding sun, caused all to bow. piercing cries, a sobbing child. all in white, meek and mild. she rose out from the holy lake, gasping, flailing, he'd made her quake. the heavens shone and with a sigh, sang, "lullaby, my lullaby."

valley forge

just out of sight, a woman, possibly a man, labors. just to simply walk. sun rays gloriously pierce the full, pregnant clouds. an eggshell white against its muted lilac backdrop. i'm overwhelmed with beauty. a flock of deer grazes before me in the monochromatic field of dry and withered grass. the color of peanut butter. a fawn skips along from patch to patch, while the older, more sophisticated deer, move at a slower pace. the treetops, like burnt charcoal fingers, extend in every direction. yet, each still reaches towards the fullness of the heavens. tall and slender. a dark, walnut brown. so beautiful. lined next to one another, perfectly, as if only God could have planted them. they stand just like a book of matches. a hiker now passes by in the woods, between the matchbook trees. overhead, the jet engine of a plane is faintly heard. here, in my car, i just sit and window watch.

still remains

oh loved one, by my side
beauty crowned with oceans' tide.
deluged deep, in drunken fate
how to find a valiant wait.

echo out, dripping dew
answer not fading blue.
fragrant billows, heavy air
naked beauty once was fair.

seeking now the favored eye
drawing in, and calling nigh.
summon high among the plain
wax and wane, his touch, her pain.