People of America

For my hurting nation, I still hope.
God bless,
Morgan
 
“People of America”
 
Let us hold our hands high above turmoil
like waving autumn treetops in a storm.
We will weave our colors together into new understanding
of love that beats as deeply as giant drums of change
in the mountains we must climb.
Hand in hand, we will share faith and hope for what waits
at the top where our people, our nation,
dance like stars beneath an open sky.
 
 
Creative Commons License
People of America by Morgan Prettyman is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

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Lilac Nation

I am shaken by the events of the past week in America, but I remain encouraged by the many people to whom I’ve spoken who are ready now more than ever to fight for unity and justice in this country. I still choose to believe that we as a people can seek wholeness. We do not have to let the dark and divisive rhetoric of this year be the norm. Instead, let us strive to heal through communication, love, and open hearts.
 
God bless,
Morgan
 
“Lilac Nation”
For unity
 
Young one, how fear has grated
your branches into brittle fingers curling
inward, terrified to embrace the wind of todays and
tomorrows. Your leaves are meant
to shade and shelter, your red, white, and blue flowers
to surprise the earth with fruitful promise. Yet in storm’s
wake I see your proud colors crying out
in red pain and blue smoke,
as your trunk parts
down the center, flowerless.
 
Young one, let your leaves return.
Soak in wind and water and courage, and
let your branches bloom anew with all
your colors as one:
a vibrant, lilac nation.
 
 
Creative Commons License
Lilac Nation by Morgan Prettyman is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

And then I see

This poem is about a beautiful sunset I saw while out visiting the Southwest this holiday season.
God bless,
Morgan
*P.S. I have updated the last stanza per my grandparents’ feedback.

“And then I see”
 
Stepping outside, I frown at the overcast 
lying across the clear blue heavens
I’d seen mere hours ago.
I climb in the car to drive away. My heart 
sinks sadly down, and
my eyes trail regretfully over
patches of blue still left
between streaks of charcoal.
 
And then I see the sunset:
molten yellow opens bright as a child’s eyes on
Christmas, peering into the darkness to find 
all the gifts of the world. I am 
dazzled and silenced by 
rose reds blooming over mountaintops.
Rippling orange and violet tapestries drape
over the horizon. Every ray of light is a
brushstroke to pull out the cool shadows of the
desert, tracing every mountain ridge. Like soft gray canvas, 
the dreary clouds now hold color in every fiber. 
 
I hear my grandmother, one seat ahead of 
me, tell a story about her brother when 
he was little: “Not long after my father died,
my brother was out on the porch, and he
pointed to the sunset and said: 
God made the sky so pretty so that Daddy 
wouldn’t want to come home.”
 
I gaze in speechless wonder and agree. 
How can anyone come back
from this?

 

Creative Commons License
And then I see by Morgan Prettyman is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.