I’ve spilled my soul these thirty days—
lines where shadows bleed
into flickers of belief.
Poetry became the outlet
my songs wouldn’t offered,
melodies must
soar in the light,
though the brightest of moments
come from confessing the dark.
In music, I’m the voice
of hope,
a role model of joy,
an architect of rising suns.
These poems called for
a deeper truth.
I’ve exposed
the torment underneath:
the silent wars,
the clawing doubts,
the tears that fall unseen.
I’ve written of nights
where faith felt paper-thin,
of how despair
can be a prophet,
pointing me
to eternal roots.
For even trees
and trembling flowers
weather the greatest
of storms,
only because
their roots dig deep.
The same is true
for my soul—
as I’ve found;
it can’t stand
against the storms I face
unless I’m wholly
rooted in Christ—
fed by living water,
anchored firm in
unstable ground.
From this misery,
sprouts ministry.
From confession,
comes connection.
From wounds,
flows wisdom.
I stand,
rooted in Him—
as I’ve always been,
though often struggle to
play the part.
Branches stretching
toward hearts full of pain.
Leaves wave in acceptance,
Offering rest to the weary soul.
I have seen
how darkness shapes
a faith that cannot
be shaken.
I have watched the lowest rise,
only because they chose to trust.
A ministry has bloomed
not in spite of misery—
but because I’ve
walked through it.
At the deepest roots,
ever faithful—
is where I find Him.
I thought the rules were thirty flat—
one each day, and that was that.
But somewhere in the server’s hum,
a glitchy little muse did come.
She whispered: “If not for loops,
then let one poem skip the queue.”
I blinked, and somehow, on my screen,
a bonus poem slipped between.
Perhaps it’s wrong. Perhaps it’s right.
Perhaps a bug snuck in last night.
And so I typed, against all odds,
a cheeky verse—poem thirty-one.
Dear LexPoMo, your code runs tight—
but I slipped past with stealth and byte.
So if this entry shouldn’t be,
just blame it on the poetic spree.
Or, say:
if month == June & poem_count > 30:
print(“You brilliant beast, you did it early!”)
wash your rice
when you’re weak and can barely eat
wash your rice
when you stumble through your first sushi attempt
wash your rice
when the heat is stifling and there’s horchata to be made
wash your rice
when the arroz con leche is for dinner
wash your rice
when you need to stretch the frijoles
wash your rice
when the grocery bill doubles
when the world boils over
when you need something to stick to your ribs
wash your rice
watch your eyes
i can confess now that i think
about it far too often; my patience,
the summer heat that sticks to us
so far apart. i can confess that i often
wonder if karma is real and if god
is vengeful; does he slash through
my wants like brushing aside winter
snow when we were so far from
each other? or does he want and
ask and plead just as i do? i can
confess now that i have been prone
to blasphemy, and the season peaks
and wears thin, and i think and wonder
now too often what will happen in that
same quiet room, that same hallowed
rain, that same quiet dark, that same karma
that bites now because it feels good
She takes a big pinch of dough
and bakes it into a sensuous loaf.
She looks at me, winks,
puts the bread on the cooling rack,
slices it with utmost tenderness, spreads
gooseberry jam on both heels. There
is no dogma in her hints,
slight nudges only. Her body
is a Corpus Christi
in tight leggings (vermillion
exposing the curves of a million
desires). The orbed fruit
stings my tongue with its sour
whip, the wheated host helps
the glob slide down my gullet.
Swallowing again is hard to do,
I close my eyes and fight off
an ugly grimace. when I open up,
she’s flung her arm out
the window with the birds’ share
and now turns and smiles
with a loose ease that says
take it or leave it
I know this car like
I know my body
(some days not at all)
mostly the distance
between the mental gear
that rotates down
and the true surface
that makes contact
with pedal. My dad
would say, is this really
the one you want to go out on?
As opposed to, in his mind,
a 1976 F-100. I will not make it
so obvious for people. Who I
am, what my body is. Last
month somebody shattered
the rear passenger window
and took only a stuffed tiger
from my childhood. That is
seriously fucked up,
everyone said. Yes,
and why did it take me
an hour of picking glass
out of the dirt to notice
that it was gone?
The Cenotaph to Poetry’s Memory:
©️Winter Dawn Burns
