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.

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.

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.

Threshold

This poem was written while flying over cities at night on my way home, thinking about how prayer can calm an unquiet mind.

“Threshold”

In the night-cloak of the globe
Cities buzz, aglow.
So little sleeps tonight.
Restless minds drift across screens
or half-formed dreams to arrive
empty at the door to peace.
I can unlock that vault with a whisper to the sky
over hands clasped in the chain of ancient lessons.
I can enter with a slow breath over
the threshold and hide here for the night.
 
 
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Threshold by Briana Batty is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.