Candle

Don’t look away. Do something.

“Candle”

Faith is a choice made staring out a bleak window at
       rampant hate, cascading disease, 
       and selfish speeches on TV cameras
and saying
       I will hold the Flame.
Courage is the scabbed hand steadying the Faith Candle
and the Flame is the One we said we’d follow on a deserted road
       to serve the neighbor who the powers have been choking
       while we were taught to look the other way.
Change is a choice made staring out a bleak window
	to step outside and hold the candle high
        and fuel tomorrow’s dawn over a better nation.

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

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