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Truth Or Prayer Posts

The Fork

Fate decries her sacred premise: always patient, always generous.
Her oath, an unbroken promise, lights two flames, becomes their guide.
Guiding them before and behind to make sure their lives intertwine.
     If by chance a free-willed mistake
     Should threaten their red string to break,
Fate will strengthen their inner sight by connecting dreams within the night.
On a highway, there is an end; a dark fork signaling a stark refrain:
“Travel the hill to hide your shame or the forest to expose your muck.
Take warning, lest you mar your own luck by staying maladapted and stuck!
     Try to love with thanks and compassion.
     Fix lost shameful disruptive reactions.
Take the forest, announce and howl; scythe the path with a noble growl.”
She knew taking the hill ascent would prove what suppressing pain meant.
She chose instead to release and lament, finding freedom in every tear.
In his dreams he called her near, revealing to her his pain and fear,
     “Your strength lifts my face to truth,
      Your truth recalls my forgotten strength.
Your walk of purpose defines your purpose; bring me on your quest.”
The hill dweller dreamed from the hill, nightly pleading to change his will.
Often waking hearing her still, often waking to her whispered breath.
Where her half-raised brow and frown intersect, she signaled her inner strength.
     “Your strength will save” her voice softly thundered.
     Her nightly plea rumbled drumming thunder.
Demanding ferocity forthcoming, her voice called again.
He shifted one morning early, feigning purpose for her staunch cry.
When the truth overpowered the lie; he started his descent
Feeling abused and still quite bent, he feigned the lie of no lament:
     Hiding shame and body wreckage,
     Hides pride from shameful blockage.
Her voice called through the morning wind, to walk his will away from shame.
With strength and worth now united, he vowed to find what fate provided.
Keeping his purpose undivided, vowing to walk his haunting path.
Forsaking his previous gaffe, his will turned him to truth’s healing wrath.
     Once he set off, his mind was set
     Not once did he change his mindset!
It’s rare, once going up that hill, to be called, be dreamt of, or dream again.
She was stalked by complacent mockers, who caused ambiguous dread.
Depravity always stands to defend, as mockery stands between.
Her cry rose high and dropped to low, claiming that she was free.
      “Bring your ferocity forthcoming,” she sang.
      “Be ready for the prowl,” her warning song cried,
“With strength save us from their biting howl.”
Never having possessed fair grace, her music echoed the air.			
Yet his ferocious forthcoming flare chased the mockers to their lair,	
Then they sang of love fulfilled, thankfulness, and lovers’ thrill.	
     The dreams of the lost began to unfetter,
     When the yawp of one man called his soul’s true lover.
Both confronted their past despair, both darkened bravely despite its dare.
Today these warriors quest for truth, finding purpose beyond their youth.
Together, unearthing buried proof, they share the evidence of hope’s intent,
Turning souls who avoid betterment to souls who learn how to lament.
     Him, thankful for her saving call,
     Her, thankful for his responsive call.
In fate’s eccentric fashion, lovers found each other’s passion.
Fate decries her sacred premise: always patient, always generous.
Her oath, a never broken promise, lights two flames, becomes their guide.
Guiding them before and behind, she makes sure their lives are intertwined.
     If by chance a free-willed mistake
     Should threaten their red string to break,
Fate will strengthen their inner sight by allowing dreams to guide their light.

I Had A Beer, Alone

I don’t remember much about the night. It wasn’t cold and it wasn’t warm. 

I had terrible news from home with one more night and another work day ahead of me. I’d been out of town for work for two long weeks (excluding weekends) and it was taking its toll. 

On the last night, after the group of colleagues failed to escape Al Capone’s speakeasy at an Escape Room, we talked our loss out over some appetizers and a beer. By 8:00 p.m. we parted ways to our respective hotel rooms. This is when I got the bad news from home. It wasn’t the type of bad news that could be resolved over a phone call, nor was the situation at home something I could even begin to understand without being there. 

Grumpy and ruminating, I recalled the karaoke dive bar not far from the hotel that my work group and me visited the previous week and I made the unfortunate choice to head over for a beer before going to bed. I sat at the bar- to the left where there were no people. I ordered “whatever IPA is on tap.” There was a short, older than middle-aged man writing in a notebook two seats to my right. My right hip was aching from my arthritis, two weeks of standing on my feet, and the exhaustion from being away for work. 

I awoke at 4:06 a.m., naked and bruises forming on my mid-back down to the back of my knees. My face hurt and I had an imploding headache. The head was the first thing I felt. As soon as I started moving around in my bed I felt sick. Though I was still unaware of my injury, I was coming to an awareness that I was exposed, uncovered, cold, and in pain. 

Like a cyclical obsession I drank water from the sink and retched. I tried to remember the beer. I put a straw in it. The writing man. The bearded bar tender. Who else? I Showered.
Vomited.
Looked at myself.
Showered.
Vomited.
Cried.
Called the front desk. No answer.
Stared in the mirror.
I saw it was 7:09 a.m. I knew I needed to start walking to the building next door for work by 7:45 a.m. My room wasn’t packed. I applied makeup. I straightened my hair. I told myself to hush. “Hush, Jamie!” I said again to my red eyes in the mirror. I put on some leggings and added a dress and a light sweater. I left my room with lights on and mess on display. 

Before heading out of the hotel lobby, I asked the front desk lady if I could check out at 2. She told me I had until 12.  I asked if she had surveillance. She said they monitor but don’t record. I asked if she worked the night before. She said her shift started  at 7:00 that morning. 

I wondered where my car was. When I found it where I parked it for two weeks, I wondered how I got to the hotel. I considered I might need to wake up from this very realistic nightmare. I then walked to the building next to hotel to give the last make-up state assessment of the journey. 

My student didn’t show. 
I sat in a chair atop my bruises and pretended I was whole while my colleagues still at the testing site chatted. I even chimed in, I’m sure. 

I got home April 29th determined to fix the vibe in me that made me the object of yet another rapist. I was chosen by depravity again. 
Closing in on 41. Overweight. Sick with Rheumatoid Arthritis. Tired and unimpressed. 
The chosen one.

By June 13, whatever he or they did finally took full effect. My spine was compressed and frayed like a horse tail (Cauda Equina) due to both a shattered disc and a bulging disc mangling it up.

3 surgeries. Deep pain. Deep deep pain. 
Anesthesia induced a resurfacing of repressed trauma. 
Brain/spinal cord infection. 
Numbness on right hip to toe (still).
‘Within hours of paralysis,” they said.

Never forgetting something I cannot remember.
Random flashbacks to darkness and fear.
No clue what happened to me. 

All because I had a beer, alone. 

Swell of the Pillage

With sweat still dripping from his naked chest, 
Seeing my tear drip from my eye to my ear,
My vicar traded guilt for my reticence:

He whispered, “So deep is the slumber,
That death is the only awakening.

Comfort is the god of the complacent-
Defended and free 
to allure even the kindest heart away from his maker.

Confronted are those who call themselves redeemed 
as the God of mercy presents a distraction-free Jesus 
to those he desperately wants to set free.  

To wander and hunger is salvation. 
‘Come out of the darkness!’ is the whisper of the unseen giant.

The demonic forces tremble 
as the Saints 
worship the Defeater of Death- 

-knowing that his rise upon the mountain
casts a shadow that shall comfort even the coldest soul 
if it were willing to reach out for him.”  

__

With blood still dripping from my naked breast,
Seeing his eye drop to his ear,
I offered the rebuttal for his guilt:

“So deep is the slumber,” I objected,
“that Truth is the only awakening.  

Justification is the god of the religious,
defended and free
to allure even the most elusive prey.

Lofty are those who call themselves forgiven 
as the they present a confrontational Jesus 
to those they desperately want to bind.  

To wander in the darkness is hunger,
and salvation is lamenting
the barbaric yawp of broken humanity.

The antagonistic forces tremble 
as the Defective 
worship the Defeater of Injustice-

-knowing that their rise upon the mountain 
casts a shadow that won’t comfort even the coldest soul
of the redeemed.” 

Sprout

Don’t think this journey to joy is going to be taken lightly or that it will be refreshing, like an Indian summer breeze whipping across a field of tall yellowing grass
or flowers delivered by surprise with a vague note and a hint of something grand.
But the journey of joy is
a poured-out widow reaching for her coffee after finishing her third cup.
Red eyed and sore from a promising  pilgrimage that resembles
worn down perseverance
and useless flattery
and consequence
and lostness
and losing.
Joy awakens from suppression-
Emerging from a chronic sick feeling that causes the aches of the bones and muscles to draw forth in salient dissonance.
Even in the grandeur of being a chosen daughter of the King, she sips her coffee and stares blankly into the violet sky wishing she knew the secret to attain joy.
All the while, in its famously unbeknownst fashion, joy’s seed was planted in the melodious dirge.
Sprouting through the fertilizer that seemed to have extinguished it.

Joy comes inconveniently on time.

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