You are Hiding

I dedicate this poem to my fellow women, with hope. Never forget that the light of the world dwells in us and we can use it to challenge the darkness.
 
God bless,
Morgan
 
“You are Hiding”
 
You are hiding.
I know this because when you were a girl
you were a blossom of creativity, a lively brook of dreams.
You spun worlds out of color and endless ideas.
 
Your path to your full potential
did not last.
You listened to fear’s senseless whisper, you dropped your flame.
Though your talent bleeds like sunrise through your skin
you covered yourself in cloaks and learned to shuffle in gray shoes.
 
You are hiding.
I watch you at arm’s length, unsure what I could say
to help you throw off the muted world you wear.
The best I come to is this:
Do not fear what you could be.
Fight for it. Love it. Love yourself.
Loving yourself is a risk, for all love is dangerous,
but all love comes from God and therefore it can look deeper,
touch our tender bones, and bring out the joy that birthed creation.
We are bearers of future.
Do not hide.
 
I am waiting.
You know this because I stand nearby
never ready to give up my hope,
sister, mother, daughter, woman.
 
 
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You are Hiding by Morgan Prettyman is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

Love

A poem of reflection and hope for God at work in my life.
 
God bless,
Morgan
 
“Love”
 
In the past, I found it in a circle of arms
of a changing family,
in clasped hands
of frightened sisters,
in silent standing
with the grieving,
in lung-bursting laughter
with the joyful,
in whispered prayer
in the hurricane hours.
 
Now, I keep finding it
in unbreakable words and
unshakable truths,
when I open my eyes to
storms or sunrises,
in the firm, steady presence
of soul-bound friends and kin.
 
Tomorrow, I will find it
in my days, years, breaths, and tears,
in sky and in flight.
 
 
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Love by Morgan Prettyman is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

River Rising

This poem was written a few months ago when I was doing mission work in the neighborhood where the 2015 Baltimore riots took place. This was the funeral of a young man who had been the 300th murder in that year. I lift this poem up as a call for peace and change in our times of pain and bloodshed.
 
God bless,
Morgan
 

“River Rising”
 
I come to an anonymous funeral
     by invitation.
I am a worker in the church,
        and do not know the dead.
the speaker in the pulpit is 
       a mighty boom of passion, pain, and sorrow
       with a resounding voice that rises in hope and volume at once
       in a declaration that shakes our hearts
into running waters where
         they fall and flow with the river 
         of gathered memories.
Together, black and white, we pray for rivers to run
        into seas of change where knives and guns
        do not fill our caskets with the young.
I did not know the dead,
        but I hear his cry.

 
 
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River Rising by Morgan Prettyman is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

Poured Out

This is a poem of love in the midst of pain, which I see in the many blood donors in Orlando. Written for the many grieving in that city.
God bless,
Morgan

Poured Out

As we reel from a new blow
We can make no sense of the blistering shock
But we turn our hearts to showing
That the blood we poured out
Is greater than the hate you threw down.
Wrapping that donor line around and around
Because we are blood brothers, blood sisters.
This flows strong in our veins, singing oneness,
Shouting down division with what is deepest.
We give where you took
And in the mile long lines and the memorials,
The candles, flags, and mourning songs,
Love is flying in an arc of colors:
Promise after the storm.

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Poured Out by Morgan Prettyman is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

Wings Will Come: Journey – Part 15 “Wings Will Come”

The last poem of my collection about my family’s move to Arizona ends with a poem I have shared before. In my family’s journey is sadness and joy, challenges and blessings. God has been with us through all these things and will continue to transform us as we go forward.
 
This is the end of the 15-poem collection called Wings Will Come: Journey. Thanks for reading along and sharing these moments with me.
 
I am now going to move to posting new poems every 2 weeks. Look for the next one a couple weeks from now!
 
God bless,
Morgan
 

“Wings Will Come”
Reflection
 
it is invasive and clings
    around me, a constant reminder.
trapped: changing and no way
      to chew free of bindings 
            I spun myself with wishes and choices
         that I never knew could lead here.
but in the gauzy darkness i
know the wings
    will come.
 
you have been hoping for your own day
         in the open 
     for even longer than I have.
I cannot see you anymore,
     but somewhere in your own cocoon
  you are growing colors like 
      Arizona sunsets
that are outlined with your bold resolve
     like an inked sketch of
     your future.
 
let’s meet in the air,
you and I.

 
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wings will come by Morgan Prettyman is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

Wings Will Come: Journey – Part 6 “Heralds”

My parents began to get ready for the move, but the enormity of the task soon made us question this decision. It was in those moments God spoke to us in unexpected ways, encouraging us forward. In your dark times, listen hard to the night, and you may find the message of hope you need.
 
Next week, I continue the story of my family’s move and God’s goodness in the change in the seventh poem of my collection, “Wings Will Come: Journey.”
 
God bless,
Morgan
 
“Heralds”
Doubts
 
preparations chew into
busy hours and restless weekends.
tasks climb on top of each other
to beg our attention.
exhausted, we stare into the shadow
they cast over the dream.
 
in the shade of the movement,
questions stitch themselves
to our skin and hide the
true muscle and bone beneath.
 
in a weary ride home
of a shadow-day
you speak to my father
in a radio song calling
for change.
When he looks ahead
he sees a license plate
for his destination
hanging in plain view.
 
today a song of change
and Arizona-tags leap to the top
of the shady mountain
to proclaim direction.
 
we follow unassuming heralds
and shed our doubting scales.
 
(For more on the doubting scales reference, see Act 9:1-19)
 
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Heralds by Morgan Prettyman is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

Wings Will Come: Journey – Part 3 “Origami wings”

When my dad accepted a new job offer across the country last year, I learned to celebrate the journey even though I wasn’t the one embarking on it. It isn’t easy to do, but whether you are watching a loved one move, a child go to college, or parting ways for the final journey of all, I believe that in the Spirit’s grace and wisdom, we can find the strength to say our farewells with hope and love.
 
In this third poem from my collection “Wings Will Come: Journey,” I reflected on the day that my dad took his leap of faith, starting a whirlwind of events that I’ll continue to share next week with the fourth poem in the collection.
 
God bless,
Morgan
 
 

“Origami wings”
To Dad
 
the job offer is an origami crane
that can’t move,
a shelf ornament made in dreaming.
then, echoing through cool spring
air, I hear 
the wings move.
      you move.
 
I sit still, suddenly 
the shelf-sitter,
fragile as rice paper while you
take to the air and shake off
the dust.
shock flattens me.
I am a paper leaf, 
blank and white.
 
I want to fly with you,
I want to stay, want you
to stay,
but your wings are finally
moving and right now life
is what matters.
so I muster a breath of air
to lift you off:
Dad, that’s great!  
but weighing me down is
Daddy, I will miss you.

 
 
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Origami wings by Morgan Prettyman is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

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