31 Syllables That Prove There’s A God
Nearest the Divine;
drunk on sacramental wine;
a true convert when,
wrapt with thee in sheets of sin,
You tell Me
“Do that again.”
Nearest the Divine;
drunk on sacramental wine;
a true convert when,
wrapt with thee in sheets of sin,
You tell Me
“Do that again.”
Is there any room for it?
Is it even ethical if it starts with Sin?
It’s certainly out of style,
it may never get back
into America’s good graces again
Slipperiness
is a word that hangs on sincerity
like a rose on a tie dyed tee shirt
worn by the stay at home dad
who home schools his three kids
with three moms
and lives off his dad’s five car washes
that are scattered all over the city
In poetry it’s often used
as a substitute for form,
who needs rhyme and meter
or punctuation even
when you can rile readers up
with another sad thing
our dear leader has conceived of doing
Sincerity never keeps company
with a skeptic
who will always question
how you tie your shoes
or how you got red hair
or did the waitress really bring
you an American flag
stuck into your cold slaw cup
It is not as innocent as we think,
it takes advantage of unhappiness
and is not afraid to drive off
like a maniac at the first sign
of a sense of humor, we all knew
that eventually it would crack up
easiest hobbies to learn
most interesting hobbies to learn
cheapest hobbies to be the most interesting
how many psi can human lungs handle
how many days are left in the summer time
13 simple steps to become a submarine operator
i’ve heard there was a certain rhyme
you could make at any time
but you don’t really need the rhyming, do you?
it goes like this, the 4th the 5th, you blink your eye –
the thirtieth, the baffled poets wondering
where did June go?
where did June go?
where did June go?
where did June go?
where did Juuuuuunneeee go?
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I am possibly writing this too late to be seen much, but it’s full of gratitude – for you, always for you, for showing up, for us, for the labor of love, for the work itself, internal and external and spontaneous. This month had wheels of fire. Hope to see you all soon and certainly to read you again next year <3
A thing with feathers,
a sewer rat
a spider placed outside —
not squished flat,
a dog under table —
at your knee —
and, to my chagrin,
then there’s me.
There was a time of pigtails
and laughter
a time of scraped knees
and bright bandaids
But I wasn’t quite her.
There was a time of first days at school,
sparkles, backpacks, and shorts
But I wasn’t quite her.
There was a time of pushing boundaries
and being misunderstood
a time of asking – who am I
But I wasn’t quite her.
There was a time of big emotions
and finding where to fit
a time of tears and finding comfort
But I wasn’t quite her.
There was a time of growth and pride
a time of determination and commitment
But I wasn’t quite her.
There was a time I thought I was her
thought I could be her
but I wasn’t.
The first gift after
a pink can of pepper spray
I carry in my pocket
Keep this with you
always
because now we know better
than to blindly trust
anyone else
Just sitting on the couch. Reminiscing. Thinking about how we first met. Second grade. Miss Jenny Merritt’s class. We’ve been friends like fifty-something years now. Wow… I would have never imagined that our friendship would blossom into such a beautiful array of flowers. Bouquet. Yellow roses. Freesia. Sunflowers.
Never will forget Miss Merritt writing on my report card. Lisa has a gift for writing. She allowed me to read my short stories to the class. Mama and Daddy filled the house with encyclopedias. Bought me books from Scholastic. Checked out books. And books. And more books. From the school library. The Book Mobile. And there you were. Egging me on. Telling me. You better write. Do you remember that writing paper we had at Linlee Elementary? A looong blue line on the top of the page. Followed by a series of blue dashes a choppy line. Then another looong line after that. Red. That’s the paper we used to write cursive letters. Where I wrote my first stories. With them big ole yellow pencils. Had to grip them with our whole. Hand. LOL!
We left elementary school. Headed to junior high. I took a class that examined different careers. Journalism stood out. I could use my pen to write. Report. Tell the truth. Inform. And there you were. Again. Egging me on. That’s when I knew. You were more than a friend. Like God destined us to meet. I fell so incredibly in love with you, Words. Lisa loves Words 4ever!!! #Infinity
In high school, you made me take AP English classes. I was afraid. But you wouldn’t allow fear to control me. I joined the newspaper staff. Became the managing editor. We graduated. Matriculated (that was one of those AP words) to college. I majored in journalism. Because of our relationship, I got to meet so many people. Coretta Scott King. The kids with Down syndrome. Ruby Dee. The father who had to bury his son. Martin Luther King, III. The VP of Honduras. I used my Words. To tell stories. Report. Write. Inform.
You have been the constant in my life. When someone asked me to write a play. You said. So. It doesn’t matter you haven’t written one before. I did it. I did it again. And again. And again. Now I have my own company. Write the Vision.
Girl, so many things have tried to destroy our lifelong friendship. Like multiple injuries. Illnesses. Cancer cholangiocarcinoma. I remember you visiting me. In the hospital. You brought my iPad. And there you were. Again. Egging me on. Telling me to write. And so I did. Wrote about cancer battering my body. Wrote about betrayal. Just writing. And writing. From my hospital bed.
Discharged. Continued to write. Until I birthed a manuscript. Born a Warrior. Pages and pages. Filled with you, Words. About how I battle grief. Watched the last breath escape from my daddy. My mama. Survived six car accidents. None. Of. Them. My. Fault. Endured two TBIs. Fell into a manhole. Yeah. You read that write. Wright. I mean right. Those TBIs and chemo brain fog. Stay messing with my Words. My love. You told me to write. Said someone needs to read our Words. Words about how to survive when life drops you into an abyss. Of sorrow. Of pain. Of mental and physical. Sometimes spiritual. I write. Write about my trauma. Write about my faith. Ask God some hard questions. Transcribe those conversations. Write.
Words, today I cried. Because I couldn’t think of how to spell a simple Word. Happens a lot [even with the TBIs, I know it’s spelled a lot. Not allot (insert eye roll emoji) like someone posted on Facebook]. I got frustrated. Angry. But there you were. Again. Egging me on. Telling me. It’s okay to ask for help. So, I asked Alexa. That heiffa spelled the Word so quickly. She knows my brain cannot process things that fast. I’ve told her 1,238 times. To spell S-L-O-W-L-Y. Geez.
Just wanted to check in. Let you know I love and appreciate you. Words, you will forever be my girl. I am me because of you.
Love Ya,
Lisa A. Brown
P.S. I forgot to mention I’ve been diagnosed with a brain tumor. I’ll write about that later. Hugs and kisses.
To capture this heartbeat, this breath, this month, this moment requires on its face little more than the capacity to take it in and to hold it in one’s memory
To convey it to another requires something more
to recreate a moment in its entirety with all its beauty, ugliness, context, and weight
That takes more than memory
There is an invisible string that has always existed between us
Since the very beginning that only we know extends beyond
All means of communication and time and space and matter
And along that string of invisible existence is a constant heart
That beats in a rhythm, like a rolling tide, reverberating through
Rising, falling, waxing, waning like a moon rising above a shoreline
My everlasting compass, the North Star to keep me aligned with my purpose
I know, you know me and will find me in every lifetime
For your soul and my soul are the same.
