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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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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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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The wind wants to teach you

“The wind wants to teach you”

 
Tragedy climbs your walls with claws the color of rain.
It does not come alone. It drags that phone call,
another hospital room, pale dread, blowing ash and
forms you do not have the money to fill.
Claw marks trail in a steady dark line,
cracks spread, and you huddle deeper inside the walls
beneath a tattered tarp of prayer.
On the beleaguered battlements of the wall
what will climb up next?
 
You wait. Wait. Wait.
 
Breaking soul, the wind wants to teach you that tragedy cannot fly
and that the sky is still yours.
Your tattered tarp will yet be wings of pearl.
 
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This work by Briana Batty is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.