Where the Wind Meets

I’ve been here alone

some people think

I’ve forgotten my home.

1000 miles away

my heart,

not my body stays.

Broken but not lost;

hold my hand

I’ll take you there –

where the wind meets home

and carries you

through the open air.

Time says you can’t go back.

Yes, we’re all sure of that,

but hope still holds deadhead

like a once thick, now worn out thread.

Hymnal

Tell me your stories about revival

I want to hear them all

About you slain out in the spirit

about the fires on the wall.

Sundays haven’t done that for me

I’m still a stranger about to fall

Oh, can you tell me why

the light looks dim and I’m so small?

Tell me your stories about revival

I want to hear them all

About the hope from the altar

And the devil’s brawl.

I’ve seen your conviction

and the aisles turned dance hall

But damn, it’s so hard

To feel hope through it all.

Tell me your stories about revival

how you’ve prayed for the call

threw your cigarettes in the trash

and committed to the long-haul.

I won’t get to church this Sunday

but I’ll still play tetherball

with a body that’s fragile

and tangled in the drawl.

Eleven

Life knocked and waited 

delayed breath – a boy! 

You nearly fainted. 

Breathe in health;

Breathe out fear. 

We chanted loudly

for only three to hear. 

Look at us now; we made it. 

Mom and Dad and Townes

for nothing could it be traded. 

Breathe in health;

Breathe out fear.

Together, always – 

another year. 

George and the Shore

This is a tale about George and, as you may have guessed by now, a shore. George is just like you and me. He doesn’t have super powers. He cannot fly, and he doesn’t even have night vision (except of course when he uses his night vision goggles).

George lives on a shore. Do you know what a shore is? I’ll tell you what I know about a shore just to be sure.

A shore is where land stops and water begins, which makes the certainty of a shore hard to see for sure.  There’s really no clear line or path on a shore, because the water’s tide changes the shore’s perimeter every few counts of a “Mississippi”.  Do you count in Mississippi’s, too? Maybe that’s just something people down in Mississippi do.

Anyway, I guess a shoreline is a pretty simple concept, but for George there is an awful lot of trouble that comes along with living on a shore. I can’t think of all the confusing bits right now, but I can tell you the most significant trouble is George’s inability to ever be, you know, sure.

I heard George say a shore is like a fringe – loose, unformed, and always on the mend. Living on the shore means he’s mostly in flux. He gets pushed back and rebuilds, back and rebuilds, back and rebuilds. Sometimes though, really scary storms come through and erode the shore’s border so much that he has to build from scratch on a new shore a few feet back from where he began. Does that make sense to you? I’m sure.

Well, George got so scared of the shore that he moved to a place off the coast of France. It’s on the water and everything, just like Mississippi, but in France they call the shoreline a Riviera.

He says he’s happy there, but I’m pretty sure any shore — no matter what you call it — is still a shore.

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Through the Miles

pattperry

Sometimes – I think –

I’ve nearly found you

but my memory is fooled

by washed images that drew

from faces it never knew.

 

Can you tell me –

Which part of you I should search for

as the lost characteristics accrue

with ever voice I hear

that isn’t you?

 

Is it a song? A touch?

A look or a smile?

I’d like to think I’d find you –

even through the miles.

 

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Brim

Related image

How does this heart bend and mould

from a confined chest

into a hand to hold.

 

Does it move by one accord

or with a riotous play that

leaves you scorned?

 

Will it travel back and stray again?

I’ve heard trough time all pain will mend.

 

But can I stop the rampant rush?

The heat, the lush, the mush and guts.

 

I pushed it back, I clinched it tight.

I begged that demon not to fight.

 

But it’s still —

hovering.

Slowing seeping into my skin

rushing out at every brim.

 

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Catenary

I have a body 5,129 miles from my home. All seven organs, all 206 bones, and three layers of skin. A mesh of veins and muscles and tendons are all there, too. Ten toes, ten fingers, and breath in its mouth.

I tied two toes with big, red strings before I sent her off sailing into another dream. My body, you know, has seen a lot. But down here, I can feel she is starting to pop.

She’s walked 22.2 miles, traveled Normandie and Paris. She’s eaten a crate of cheese, and a whole fish with carrots.

I let her go on pretending she’s dauntless and brave, but I can see her strings are starting to fade.

So I gave her two toes a few tugs while she was out there – suspended and free – and I asked her nicely to remember me.

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Eight Years

Year One

Rules:

(1) Don’t touch my face or

(2) Watch me shower or

(3) Slap my ass in public or

(4) Open pickle jars for me or

(5) Wake me up before I’m ready or

(6) Let me oversleep or

(7) Say anything about working out or

(8) Buy me flowers when you know I like plants or

(9) Open doors for me or

(10) Tell me not to cry.

DO YOU UNDERSTAND? 

I don’t like tree bark or pomegranate seeds or when roots cling to plants that are already dead.

DO YOU UNDERSTAND? 

I can’t think about space. DON’T MAKE ME. There are too many little parts in one picture; too many small things swirling together. Dark Matter. Gas. How did you even find me?

I DON’T UNDERSTAND.

I like birds because they are bovine. You are the only one who knows that. They are not feeble or angelic! Eight hollowed bones in each wing and they spend all day nesting. MORONS.

NO ONE ELSE UNDERSTANDS. 

Year Eight (365 days times 8 plus 2 leap years and 3 hours)

Rules:

(1) Never leave me.

DO YOU UNDERSTAND? 

You are my star; my nested bird in chaos.

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