World

World

 
A room full of the world

is learning the same language.

The melodies of success are laughter

and the gratitude for a shared meal from many tables.

I know what God’s kingdom sounds like.
 
 
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Force

Force

 
See me standing here
all colors of the earth and the sky after a storm? Take note:
I am a force.
 
Force is movement.
What you saw standing is now marching.
I surge forward, dragging my protests and uncertainty along for the ride
because I’m not waiting to figure it all out.
I’ve got now and I’m taking it.
 
See me.
 
See each color, see each culture, see each human dancing beneath my skin.
If you have to be scared, be scared,
but then get past it.
I was scared too at first, but now courage is my language. Speak it with me.
 
I am woman.
 
 
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This work by Briana Batty is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

Truly I tell you

Truly I tell you

I’ve been hearing what you
	haven’t been saying.
You’ve been silenced by the distance,
	strangled by the change.
I’ve been speaking softly in your midnights,
	facing down your fears.
You are bound to me by spirit,
	tucked deep into my heart,
	though you picture yourself 
	as the wandering ship off course in the waves.
Your hurt is my hurt for
	you rest in my soul.
I have been holding you 
	while speech is numb in your throat,
and I have been healing you
	even though you fear wholeness.
Weary mustard seed, you are growing into 
	what you can’t see yet,
but truly I tell you this: 
	The shadows you haven’t been saying 
	will not rule you,
	Child of the Light.

 
 
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This work by Briana Batty is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

With Seeking

With Seeking

 
The angel on the shelf looks upon the white open squares
of my calendar. My pen scurries to pour ink into each crevice
but falters in the parade of days looping back and forth
in strings of identical weeks.
 
The angel on the shelf holds a glitter-covered star on a green thread.
She is one of the last decorations destined for bubble-wrapped hibernation
but she is yet a voice of her holiday, singing silent over that guiding star
of ancient wise ones.
 
Begin the year with seeking, and do not
stop. The truth awaits among the outcast.
 
I put down my pen
and go east.
 
 
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This work by Briana Batty is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

30 Years

30 Years

My bare feet have left stepping stones in their wake
that make a mosaic path of memory back to birth cry.
In thirty years I hold childhood games, lessons, and friends.
I walked among giants with imaginations and hearts I yet aspire to,
I learned the words of the Spirit’s rising hymn
and have lifted my own voice in the choir.
Worry and fear have wrestled with me
but I tumbled out of the melee on top, confident in a soul forged by
dreams, love, faith, and fire.
I met sisters and brothers who came to me first as friends
but are now knit into my skin as a circle of colors,
And against the backdrop of these decades
was the meeting of two minds and hearts
who chose love and life together before God.
From nervous girl to woman proud, I have crossed many rivers,
And in their reflection I see the tale I’ve been telling strong through
deep roots and a learning song.
 
 
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This work by Briana Batty is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

Worship

Worship

It is a crystal prism of song found golden in victory
dull ash in neglect, ruby in desperation.
Words that do not change form still shift in the spinning wheel
from blue grief to deep green hope to flaming orange doubt
crying out new purpose to each hour hand.
Our moments reteach us old songs:
hold the prism to the dawn and see.
 
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Wild

“Wild”

 
I stand beneath the parents of the wild.
Rustling overhead are leaves that took millions of years
to learn their trade and perfect it.
Pure green lit like dappled paper lanterns edged in lime,
fluttering when they rise with the wind.
Veins flow through them like creeks running through time:
tiny and strong, they build futures.
When the light turns red on the highway
I can hear the leaves and who they shelter.
Chirping songs break up
that whisper of assurance: it is the young speaking to the old.
Mine is a tiny melody too, for my human veins are new,
my perfection still far away.
Perched on ancient branches,
I will learn my way to sunlight.
 
 
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This work by Briana Batty is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

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