Give Thanks With a Grateful Heart

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From the moment my heart, smaller than the head of a match 

flared to life my blood pumped thanksgiving to you.

My every waking cry was a shout of praise for breath and each 

crawling step on bended knees a worshipful sacrifice of praise

My musical babbling,  joyful noise falling upon attentive ears

as my incoherent songs of worship colored the angels wings

as they gathered and whispered, “watch as he prays” 

I stumble through a broken “Our Father, Who art in Heaven”. 

each faltering word drenched with understanding based of childlike faith,

the forgotten lines pauses for you to answer back

This was when I knew the perfection of dependence 

and before the notion of privilege was battered into my skull. 

A simpler time when my every exultation was born from my grateful heart

and expressed in every breath that past from my lips

Before I grew to understand poverty and strife and misery

but even now, though my steps are sure and firm on the earth

and my voice has lost the magical innocence of incoherence

and each prayer is an elaborate treatise arranged just so

still within me beats that same heart, now the size of a fist,

a fist hammering down the walls of self reliance and apathy

and remembering what it was to laugh and talk with you in a forgotten 

patch of sunlight, thanking you for making the sky blue because

I really liked the color and asking why you made fire hot.

When I realize that in the simplicity of my childhood you cared for me

and in the ignorance of my youth you stilled cared

and now in the confusion of my young adulthood you still care

my flaming fist sized heart swells in song as I give thanks

as I give thanks with a grateful heart. 

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A Candle in the Darkness

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It’s dark outside and lonely, 

the wind whispering through the trees

seems to make fun of my silence.

The gentle patter of water against pavement,

a laughing prod at my deserted heart.

The moon, with her aching pull, is covered by clouds

and I am alone in the night, seemingly abandoned

with only darkness as my companion.

The storm doesn’t rage but inundates, insinuates itself

through hidden cracks and seeps through locked doors

to smother everything with the oppressive dark dampness.

The only cure seems to be the relentless tick tocking,

that talking voices echo with the same tired words 

but time is slave to no man, nor woman and plods on

slowly, as if too, stuck in the muddy moroseness of the moment

the future is distant, only dimly desired and and duly doubted.

But when hope like a bird of myth brought low seemed ready to die

a match was struck and a candle flickered on.

The light weak and wavering from side to side in the storm

and hands, unused to movement spring to the rescue

covering the coveted flame and capturing the meager light

which sparked the internal flames with with flickering dance

mirroring the freshly beating heart which drummed 

the ticking clock the metronome for the song of sadness being composed.

Not as a mourning dirge but as a celebration of life and experience

as I sit in the darkness holding a candle and waiting for the storm to pass. 

My Brother, Prodigal Son

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The prodigal son returns, or so they say

broken by life’s bastard billows but

able to remember from whence he came

We drove past, crowded street illuminated by sun and sin

and decorated with homeless hunted with relentless demons

the house guarded by angry black gates next to a corner store

and silence that was only punctured by the woman shouting

silence that lay heavy over us and overshadowed the light of the sun

because we knew that he wasn’t there, a dead apartment, abandoned

we searched, the tear trails not yet carved but clearly waiting

as we scan the small community of possessed broken people

who lower than pigs because they are not able to eat

but rather lay in the sun and wait for something that makes sense

is he lost among them, searching relentless for the chasing figures

or is he running to and fro unable to rest with the rest of us

always just a step ahead of me like when I was a child looking up

looking at the golden boy silver tongued devil that was both devil and angel

wrapped up in enigma and mystery and pain but still hopefull

the prodigal prodigy with prodigious capabilities seemingly invincible

and yet he now is broken by the battering of the bitter pill he swallowed

when he was born that made him a wanderer, unable to rest, to resist

Where did you go my brother, brother where did you go

how can i look up to you if you are at rock bottom

how can i follow if you are lost in your mind

how can i help if you are alone