Waiting for Someday

"Patience, child."

They all say that. They all want me to be content with this lot in life; be content with the speed of scummy pond water.

"Patience is a virtue, child."

They don't understand how impossible it is to be patient when you know that just beyond the horizon line is LIFE. Not the 'life' you've been living lately. Not the 'life' they have planned for you.

"Be patient." they say.

Its just noise. How can you be happy on the ground when you were meant to fly? How is it that no one else can see that? Don't they know that those words are as heavy as chains dragging you under the waves?

"Life will come when it will."

But isn't life what you make it? This life was meant to be lived, why wait to live it?

I'm not waiting for someday.

Imperfect God

I am not looking to be saved.
Nor, am I looking to be rescued.

I don't need someone to come in and die for my sins.

I need someone who is willing to stand by me through the hard times.
I need someone who is willing to hold my hand through the worst times.

I don't need a God that exists somewhere in the ether.
Possibly listening to me,
Maybe answering,
Maybe not.

Maybe forgiving,
Maybe hateful,
I don't need that.

I need someone who can be God in flesh.
Someone who forgives me,
Someone who loves me,
Someone who takes care of me.
And who is willing to stand by me no matter what happens.

I don't need omnipotence.
I need closeness.
I don't need foreknowledge of what's going to happen.
I need... I need vision.

I need vision to look forward and say,
"Maybe this will happen and maybe it won't, but, no matter what happens, I'll be here."

And the God in Christianity doesn't give me that.
The God of Islam does not give me that.
Buddha doesn't give me that.
None of the Gods give me that.

None of the Gods are FLESH.

I need someone who can hold me when I'm crying.
I need someone who can wipe my tears away.
I need someone to be in love with;
Not just metaphorically speaking.

I don't need righteousness.
I don't need blessedness.

I need fallibility.

I don't want perfect.
I'm an imperfect being.
I want an imperfect God.

Its so much easier to love a God who has fallen short,
than it is to love one who has never fallen at all.

Writing Exercise: The Statue of Liberty

Phil stood on Ellis Island taking pictures of the Statue of Liberty. It was a fairly
average New York day, nothing too spectacular. In fact, he was already starting to get a
little bored when this oddly dressed couple approached him.

"Excuse me, sir!" said a woman dressed in tie dye extreme, her long black hair braided
with pink and white ribbons.

"We were wondering," said her companion, his beard decorated with bows.

"Yes, wondering!" said the woman, her smile a little too practiced.

"Wondering if you would like,"

"Yes, if you would like to,"

"Join us for a tour!"

They both smiled, which slightly creeped him out.

"What kind of tour?" he asked, holding his camera in front of his chest like it would
protect him.

"Why, a tour of the Statue of Liberty!" cried the woman, her impossibly perfect smile
widening.

"Its only one of the best things about New York!" cried her companion.

"I don't know..." said Phil, backing up a bit. Before he could fully escape, the woman
had his arm and the man was leading the way. They dragged him up to the statue and began
spouting off random facts about Lady Liberty's journey across the ocean.

"This is the entrance right here!" exclaimed the man, opening the door and ushering his
companion and Phil in.

Looking up, Phil noticed something slightly amiss. There were legs. Impossibly long and
slender; and further up was a shapely bottom and a delicately shaped female sex. Even
further up were perfectly rounded breasts and the face of Liberty shone with such sweet
gentility that it almost knocked him backwards.

"Wow." he murmured, completely in awe.

"Isn't she lovely?" said the woman, her grip tightening on his arm.

"Isn't she a goddess?" said the man, his hands coming around Phil's waist.

"Hey!" he cried, struggling.

From the shadows came at least a dozen more men and women, their smiles eerie and their
eyes glowing with lust.

Over powering him, they drug him up toward Liberty's breasts. Securing him so that he
stood before her face, they cut off his clothing. He squirmed and tried to escape, but
found he couldn't move.

"It will all be over soon." said the woman, her eyes seemingly shifting in color and
shape.

Pulling knives from their clothes they began to cut him until a decent amount of blood
flowed. Gathering some into a cup they offered it to Liberty. She drank deeply and,
before they slit his throat, he saw her smile.

No Rhyme, nor Reason

In my, brief, lifetime there have been many battles lost and won; over hearts come undone and rewoven; over stories that have yet to be spoken into being; over blessings and curses, tears and verses.

Love has been cast, like so many pearls, before the swine; but who can blame a pig for being a pig?
We tell the pig to change his ways, mend a soul to alter appearances. Ah, but those are words for older scars and, really, who and what we are is nothing in the comparison of who and what we could be; will be.

Love comes as a harlot, a wanton, eager for desire and heat. Eager for some kind of belief; the belief that physical attraction is all that is required to make it last.

Love comes as a broken child, lonely and full of grief, eager for comfort and trust. And we all trust love when we see her, because we have been taught to.

Love comes not as a present to be unwrapped, unraveled, undone. Nor merely as a prize to be won. No, Love comes as a thief, a murderer in the night. It steals your soul, sifts through the rubble of your existence, murders your will, shatters your heart. As it breaks, it heals, it conjures and tricks, it flits about in fits.

Love calls upon the pigs and the princesses, it calls upon paupers and kings. It courts death and divinity, plagues baited breath and ribald poetry. It dances through moonlight silences and evergreen wastes; through joy and through pain.

Female Liberation: Part 1

In rolling red script
the declarations proclaimed that a
woman's life was profane. With
sadistic glee they began the purge,
chortling in delight as they
raped, pillaged and purged.

Some they kept alive, for how
else would their population thrive,
but it was decreed that no
female babies would be kept
alive. Mothers, sisters, aunts,
daughters and friends were
each dragged away for no
other sin than that of being womankind.
The smoke from the pillars
let off a dark and foul stench,
tangled with cries to "burn the
wretched wench!"

The gallows bowed under the
weight of so much female weight.
The ones to be kept were corralled,
collared and caged. They were
given numbers instead of names.
The were fed, but they were
starved. They were kept healthy for
breeding and when a woman was
deemed infertile she was
executed with no remorse.

For a century they were enslaved by
the men in power. For a century they
struggled. (All the centuries of female
liberation and female power shattered.)

One night, in the quivering darkness, a
woman, once named Amira now called
number 27, prayed to the goddess, her
tears pleading.

"O great and wonderful goddess, please
send a one who will save us from this
hell. We are faithful to you, please be
faithful to us as well." That night
the Goddess heard, as if for the first
time, the cries of the harmed. She
wept at the chaos caused and the
cruelty of such caustic laws.

So, when the breeding season came,
she caused a soft rain to ensure
feminine seeds. Her magic was gentle
and pervasive, calming even the most
hostile of the delegates.

The Taste of Poetry

You taste like poetry.
Lips like Frost's road less traveled.
Eyes like Longfellow's days of sunshine.
You smell like autumn and summer;
the scent of changing leaves in your hair,
the sweetness of blue skies in your face.
You sound like a storm.
Voice soft as rain against the windows,
words rolling like thunder through dreams.
You remind me of red.
Your moods are cerise blooming flowers.
Your warmth glowing like coals.

The Dragon King: Part Seven

Waking up, Aysel saw the cave split asunder like an over-sized geode.

The Dragon construct lay, shattered, a small distance off. Its underbelly was torn open revealing the inner-workings and beside it lay the body of Emyr.

The land was scorched beyond repair, the caverns shattered. She stood to look over her realm, her damaged wing fluttering as she righted herself. For miles the ground was strewn with bodies; goblins, faeries, woodland creatures. Limping, she moved toward the cavern opening.

Beside a Faery body was a ruby eye and a tiny flower, the only living thing for miles.