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.

On Tour

A boy, a mole, a fox and a horse: the recipe for a Christmas bestseller |  Books | The Guardian
@charliemackesy

The track moves straight,

it’s headed out from here.

You can’t turn back,

to relive the years.

So go on slow

and steady,

but don’t forget

where you’re headed.

I’ll come along with you

until your ready.

I’ll go along with you –

as long as you’ll let me.

 

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daughters

Father blog

 

If I had enough memories to remember

I’d string them together with falsehoods of you.

Each moment, a thread, woven snippets of truth

with transient hems for your light to shine through.

A new image, a father, a friend.

If only by imagination –

I’d create to mend.

 

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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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New York Beauty

NY Beauty

In the center of me is happy

colored and layered and taut.

Like the first stitch in a scrim quilt

pulled through layers of scrap.

“A blithe event!” said one.

It is indecorous.

“We’ll need tulips for proof!”

Tack them loose.

“Stitch here with yellow!” said the little bee.

Whiplash is best.

“I have blue. Should I put that in, too?”

On the Gambesons.

“No! Layer on layer of happy!” the little bees circled.

“Until we craft who you are!”

And who I am Not.

 

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