Hallelujah for the Discomfort

Prayer is not a language I speak.

My words get tight, jumbled, stilted,

I'm never

too sure who I'm talking to

or if

they're listening.

I get stuck

not knowing how to address

the person to whom I am speaking

-- if it's he, or she, or they --

I know God

is probably that 10-year-old genderqueer kid

who already corrected me once last week

when I used the wrong pronouns, and didn't think to ask first.

I mess up

every prayer I utter

in spite of my best intentions

But I want my heart to be good at blessings.

I want my blood to be made of hallelujahs,

want my cells to form themselves in the shape of active love

till it's the only thing I'm made of.

So even though my bones

tremble when I speak,

may it be only because I took what was broken

and used it to fuel a fire of intensity

and the pieces --

they sometimes rattle when I get going;

there is no place

for shame, disappointment, being small,

this active love is bigger

than my tendency to be

complicit

silent

passive

in the face of injustice, so

here

is the hallelujah.

Here

is the ferocity,

the intensity,

the whole-hearted

being without apology

this active love alliance is

the hallelujah.

So hallelujah.

My love pulls my spine like a rip cord

that parachutes the broken open umbrella of my heart.

My heart prays

on street corners with signs and loud voices

in quiet circles
in conversation

in how do I help
in listening
in standing up

speaking up

showing up

showing up

showing up...

I was not taught pray.

Was not taught to engage this type of love -

I was taught to be quiet.

To look away,

to not speak,

to look for love in all the wrong places -

can't find my own body holy enough

to hold her whole and sacred,

there are so many layers

to stepping in

but  Brave is just what we call

Scared when she's

holding hands.

So let's hold hands.

Hallelujah for the discomfort.

Hallelujah for every time we pull back the covers on our still-sleeping hearts

to feel what we couldn't feel before,

hallelujah for the pain of light entering 

our too-long closed eyes

let's throw open the shades

and bless the uncomfortable

we'll praise the surprise

hear the sadness

the rage

hold the tears

cherish the anger

let's bless this holy voice

turn our anger into movement that breaks

ground on this moment of truth-building.

Let us build ourselves

into promise-beings of active love;

let us break the truth

so when we speak again

our voices shake

and we let them tremble.

Untitled, because this poem makes me anxious

I tried really hard to come up with a title for this poem, and I couldn't, because the poem makes me anxious...and the more I look at it, the more I hate it, and the more I look at it, the more I want to burn it, and I also think this is a really important poem, so I'm not going to burn it...........but I'm not going to title it either.

So there.

This poem needs a title, because it needs context so you can know what the heck I'm talking about.  It doesn't really come from the poem.  It's gotta come from the title.  Soooo....I can't totally back out of the title.  It's also 1AM.  I should really go to bed.  This stupid poem is being a jerkface.

.....

I should REALLY go to bed.  

The possible titles I came up with were:

"Home" or  Family Patterns

The still impossible longing hits and penetrates with bulls-eye accuracy:

this wanting settles damp and chill like winter in these bones.

She enters without question the way winter descends--

expected, yet unbidden, known, surprising and unwanted,

the chill is still dangerous without protection and, 

even now,

I want to believe this body can withstand the cold;

want to believe myself impervious to the

way it enters without asking:

I know I am standing, but cold has a way

of making me

so small.

This is the way it happens:

slowly.

Like freezing,

but not like the Antarctic,

just like somewhere cold

without a coat, or hat, or mittens

because you thought you had something to prove

or maybe

you just wanted to be able

to feel the warmth

in case it happened.

You know?

Next time, I tell myself, just wear the fucking coat--

but don't we know I like to make her comfortable?

Next time, I will find myself praising the way she is warmer than last year.

Next time, I will emphasize the way she is shining the sun in just the right places, and

next time, I will tell her how those icicles are glistening so nicely and how

the hypothermia is tricking my hands into feeling

so warm.

There are choices we must make

to keep ourselves comfortable and

there are choices we must make

to survive.

My body can count its blizzards

like rings inside a tree--

it recognizes each

as one more choice where there was none

like each year that tree had the choice to grow

or say that's enough now

and stop, but it never did if only because

that's not how trees work --

we know that still in winter, they're growing

even if it's

invisible and

deep and

underground.