The wind dances barefoot

spreading warm fingers of pure light.

I smell the scent of heaven in

the robin eggshell sky as

love is released into horizon,

colors of turquoise and aqua

melded in symphony of sea.

Vanilla foam washes whispers in

warmth, radiating naked and pure,

waves cresting in pulsing heartbeat,

souls dancing in spirit of sunshine.

Emerald facets of sea kiss

cinnamon sand, washing it clean.

Sundrenched in sultry heat,

energy flows and captures darkness

in rhythm of oceanic daylight,

cradled by warm currents sighing.

Kaleidoscope of cascading clouds

reflects its joy in sea sparkles,

a gentle reminder of a pure beauty

that is wide open and free as

I am cottoned in arms of serenity.

From the Point

the light 

sweeps low

cutting through

the mist 

and snow. 

Then I hear

the foghorn blow,

the billows roar,

and sense the

thunder 

of maroons 

calling men 

brave and true

to leave 

their beds

and save 

some souls

upon the sea. 

There is a 

certain purity

to the anger 

of the ocean

and a brotherhood

monk-like 

in their devotion

to this element. 

On nights

like these 

the weather frees

all but initiates 

from this worship. 

For good or bad

the sea is impartial 

in a judgement

spelled out

in bones, 

churchyard stones,

and weeping widows

in empty homes. 

On nights

like these 

I am cured 

of my disease

and bless 

the chance 

that the 

sea God's

glance 

falls on better 

men than me. 

For I am done 

with salt

and tears

and I may stay 

neat and clean

tucked up 

with the girl

of my dreams 

in the cottage 

by the shore 

and I need 

brave the 

sea no more. 

I marvel at you with trembling tears.

You are scoffed at

Laughed at

Spat upon

Stepped on.

You are called weakness, 

ignorant falseness

unfashioned for this world.

A stumbling block to pragmatism.

We never looked you in the eye

yet we knew when you were near…

You were in our way!

If you ever spoke we missed it

For our ears were closed and our eyes shut

We would shout you down with venomous screams

We would raise our mirth ever louder

until nothing could be heard but the sound of our own laughter

and we mistook that for your death as you were nowhere to be seen.

But you had simply walked away.

Shaking your head.

And we danced on the ground where your tears had fallen.

And pummelled your memory into the dust

Then..., like a familiar but long forgotten scene, I saw you passing by...

I saw you and your light shone so brightly on my dimming grey heart -

it stopped

and I could not breathe

I fell

I fell and wept

I fell and wept and wished and cried

and choked and pleaded

and cried and wished

that you would return.

Return and forgive

Return and give

a remembrance,

a word,

a sound,

a flower,

a seed.

Something unbreakable,

Something unstainable,

untamable,

uncontrollably incorruptible

Something even I could not darken.

So you returned

And I marvel at you with trembling tears.

She wore a white dress. It was tattered and soiled. She had just climbed through a sagging barbed wire fence and it snagged on her tiny ankle. The wound was red and gaping. She cried, but there was no comfort to be found. 

I started digging through my backpack, looking for a bandage, a wipe.

Anything.

It wasn’t enough. There wasn’t a wipe or bandage in the world that could fix what was wrong with this picture.

She lived in a rag-picking slum. Her home was an open, dirt floor, cloth shanty with a tin roof held in place by rocks.

I’ve never experienced hopelessness that says, “You have no value. This is your lot in life. It’s the best you can expect.”

Untouchable. Uninvited. Worthless.

Her culture might tell her she’s untouchable, She is not uninvited. She is not untouchable. She is not worthless. She has purity.

We can’t do it alone, but together we can reach across barriers and cultures and join hands to make a difference.

This little girl is created in His image. The sparrows are unseen and unvalued by most. Yet God sees them, and He sees her purity.

For sure, the question is what's pure.

Untainted? Untouched? Demure?

Does one bathe in bath salts tinged with gold?

Or refrain in the cloister of the fold?

Deny one's passions for divine approval?

Object, refute to deem perusal?

Purity is honest, the unscathed truth,

The blemished and shameful,

The frivolities of youth.

The swathe of the hateful,

A community of whines,

A lathe of grime,

All the time.

To bask in the glow of critical eyes,

To relive the fire of former thighs,

To connect the past with future why's,

To distract them all with present lives.

What's pure, to be sure, is nothing more,

Than the name you're fighting for,

The soul only you know so well,

Your horrible heaven, your perfect hell.

A child's laughter,

Bursting out

Like a water balloon,

Bubbly and lively,

Echoing into

Milk-colored galaxies.

A small little flower,

On a mountain top,

Patiently waiting

For the day

The sun will shine

Its light

Upon her.

A measly caterpillar,

Dragging its feet,

Despised or ignored,

Not knowing

That one day

It will spread its wings

As a beautiful butterfly.

Purity resembling the color white,

Clean and unblemished like virginal snow.

Where innocence and decency unite,

Captivating with a hypnotic glow.

Blissfully flawless and unpolluted,

Radiating blinding saturation.

Wholesomely honest and undiluted,

Surviving free from adulteration.

Exquisitely and impeccably chaste,

Bestowing subliminal affection.

Immune from animosity displaced,

Occupying transcendent perfection.

Sovereign safety from myriad woes,

Undamaged by hate from they who oppose.

Amid soiled walls

stitched and knotted haphazardly

built on thread columns and beams

swaying in the cold breeze

that blows from the silent river at night

On sheets of carton

laid on the colder floor

stained with mud and footprints

coated in the thickest dust

that sails the skies by day

Clad in thin shreds of rags

tainted with the purest blood,

there lay like moonlight

the most innocent face, the smoothest skin

the coldest in the night.

Untampered, untouched & morally clean.

No blemish or stain may the eyes of God, have seen.

Let no more dirty or harmful substances taint the empirical virtue, but let it be washed over the white soul to renew & eschew

Continue in the pledge of servitude that is towards any & all

Hold the spiritual belief, for it is

The purity of your faith that attends to those who fall.

A picture is nothing without the fine lines. The little details that complete it. You are those little details. You turn scribbles into beauty. Without you , the picture would be a white canvas, maybe even a crinkled up sheet in the trash. Without you the world wouldn't make sense.