Grace Stands us on our Feet

Grace. It sounds like a whisper,
It feels like a gentle touch that reaches out
To you when you are crumbling on the inside.

Grace. It smells like the ozone off the ocean,
It looks like the moving of the palm fronds
Under the warmest sort of breeze.

And yet. Grace doesn’t always look
As soft as it sounds.
Sometimes grace is full of grit.

Grace is strength that comes from
God-knows-where
When you feel oh, so weak.

Grace is the ability to hold on when
Everything inside you feels like caving.
Almost everything.

Grace is crying your insides out, then standing up
To pull your daughter close, your tears
Drying themselves on her hair.

Grace is saying, ‘I believe’ when there’s
Nothing around you that makes belief
Seem anything less than crazy.

And yet. Grace is the
Deep inner knowing that
Belief is the only thing that makes sense.

Grace is me and you, our faces before the
Love that made the universe.
And grace stands us on our feet once again.

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Time Travel

The places I've lived Live inside me Like so many Russian dolls. Their different faces Appear, with a certain scent, A particular quality of light And air. The smell of freshly cut grass Brings England out to greet me. Tennis on a hot afternoon; Cold beer beside a canal; School uniforms; the BBC news; Christmas carols with the smell of Hot cloves. Crashing waves on a wintry beach And Cape Town grabs my hand. The smell of ozone on damp air; A certain vibe, somewhere Between vintage and cool; Sundowners on the stoop, and I'm there. Fresh fish roasting on open coals, Mozambique makes an appearance. A drumbeat heard outdoors; The smell of candle wax Or kerosene; bumping over a pothole; Sleeping under a mosquito net; still Getting bitten. All these places are inside me. Not part of history but Part of my soul. Time is not a straight line of Consecutive events So much as a kaleidoscope, Concertinaed within. And I am all these...

Silence

I think of the poem I wrote, That I wanted to read to you. I think of the way I wanted To ask you to pray with me. And yet my words are stuck In my throat, I can't afford to need you this much. I can't risk the disappointment o f disinterest, The disillusionment of good intentions Fallen flat. They say hope disappointed makes The heart sick, and my heart is sick. And fragile, and full of shadows. But the risk of sharing that with you Is too great. I cannot be the needy one, Am tired of being one thing Instead of many things. I want to claim my strength and perseverance, My resilience and fortitude. But all you see is this sadness And so, I keep silent.

What is Beauty?

Wild, untended spaces, Enclosed. Or open. Brushwood and leaf litter, Thorny. Tree canopy overhead, Welcome shade. Not far away Well-tended villas, Manicured lawns behind High walls. Clean lines, lush green Bright and showy. Beauty is everywhere. We find it, We make it. The best kind of beauty Is the kind we share with others Easily, generously. Like sitting in sunlight Under a tree Content to be ourselves.

Gobble Funking Around With Words

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