To fly through the sky
In a bird-shaped body
With windows and wings
And a bird’s eye view of the earth—
What a strange, spectacular thing!
To be below the clouds
Looking down on the earth,
To be inside a cloud with only pure, fluffy white in sight,
And to be above the clouds,
Soaring through a sky of vibrant, glorious colors,
Blue, white, red, orange,
And the most beautiful of all,
Glides in and out of dreams
As I sail through Heaven’s stunning seas!
Seven yellow butterflies
Fragile and urgent look
How they flick and flutter
Their papery wings as they fly
To the mustard gold grasses
And rich red wild clovers
All eternity is in the moment
Where the eyes fly and focus in
On the small, significant beauties of
Wisdom and thoughtfulness
Are stirred motion of the mind
Seven dancers playfully bounce and prance through
Even as bees toward
Their honey-hive paradise fly,
See how they frolic and float through the air
To their home
In the humble tree’s love and care,
See how they thrust their fuzzy, yellow and black-striped bodies
With persistent passion
Into the syrupy honeycomb
Weighing heavy with their labor liquid,
See how they dive into flowers,
Sucking from its center
The honey-milk of nectar.
The butterflies cease their dancing for a second
And hover over the flowers,
Ready and willing to surrender themselves
To the floral universe
. . .
Now each settles down
On a soft, yellow stage
With red-petalled curtains
Held high above the ground
On a green stem tower
All seven are vigorously drinking
From the red buildings.
Who would have thought it could be so simple?
Make your beautiful appearance now,
Owl, dark bird of brown,
Messenger in song
Of life that is intentional
And death that is inevitable
Whose sonorous song
Comes flaming red
Into the world
From his mouth,
Never stop making your melodious music
Under the watch of the moon.
I have not seen you now
For far too long a time.
Don’t torture me with your absence,
I delight in your comforting presence,
Flapping and clacking
The pulse of your wings,
Your dark, wise head
Out of the thick, fluffy pines
When you peer down on the world
With your amber eyes.
. . .
Then settles and comes to rest
From mere prevalence
Into the beauty of meaning.
Above the clouds, I fly,
Seeing the fudgy mountain peaks
Peppered in powdered sugar snow,
The bumpy, red-wrinkled land
That looks like an expanse
Of Mars on Earth,
The green-quilted grasslands,
The rocky-textured land
That splits into rivers and rivulets,
The smooth streaks
Of rosy pink, light orange, and faint yellow
That stain the horizon with their beauty,
And the sparkling city lights
Where stars fell from the dark night
Leaving their glimmering glitter so beautiful and bright.
To be above the clouds—
What a wonderful thing,
To see the world beneath your feet
In a new, different way,
Oh, how refreshing and awe-inspiring!
I said every night before bed as a little kid
I said hand in hand before dinner at the holiday family gathering
I said after the start of our first period class.
How innocent it was as a little kid
So easy to see what wasn’t there
So easy to talk to an invisible man who promised to always be.
Years went by and the “Dear God” before bed became less frequent.
It was hard to talk to someone that I couldn’t even see.
What if He's not really there?
What if it was just a youthful imagination that gave me comfort as a kid?
What if I'm pouring my whole life out to nothing?
How do I know?
I can't see this mysterious man.
I want to have control of my own life.
I can’t let this imagination take hold of my vulnerable side.
Nobody can take hold of my vulnerable side.
I am left alone.
I tell myself I want it that way.
Yet somehow all I feel like I can do is say that simple phrase.
Like maybe I can escape back to that little girl laying in her twin sized bed.
I force a “Dear God” into the dark empty bedroom.
No response yet I keep on.
I share every little thought that goes across my mind.
And somehow I feel Him there.
It's like I'm her again.
Innocent, vulnerable, heard.
No matter how big my Imagination was, God was still there.
He was always there.
I just had to talk to him.
by Clara Monahan & Ella Green
At tea with an old friend-
Divinities to the others.
See how I found this end,
O noble, sacred brother?
Twisted words with clever lies
That I would gain their favor.
Drew a face to suit their eyes
Fight for my birthright’s labor
Won them all and yet somehow
My fate remains the same
I fell for one, who’s left me now
The one they all will blame
Ironic, how the foil of my plan
Should be a child of the sun.
Eight beats the seventh, I die for a man
But better than to live for one
Chance’s favor wanes from my grasp
I’m left with fresh love’s pain inside.
So I sit with you, good friend asp,
And linger with a shame I can’t abide.