So what

So what If print
               this way is for present bringing purpose.  
                     So what If I’m still writing as though in some imaginary
conversation, pretending there’s a challenge, pretending
you are saying stop
       And I’m refusing.  
So what If it’s only in my head that I defend my freedom to and that I’m once again procrastinating writing
                                                               what I
should, 
saving for later, thoughts on captivity tales.  
I’m breaking free of my own type of bondage and this is
                                                                                                    how I do it.
And so what if all I’ve got of actual workable scarlet
                            letter commentary is not too
                                               much yet; I’ve got enough real
                                                                                                             life
tormenting, teasing
                    in my life and mind at current
                                                              to aid when I get down to work.
                                                                           I can’t escape
                                                                                                       it- 
it’s
 all
around – in the every
              day.  Though, Red’s not my favorite, I have wet
                           the thread
                                                 and my skin affirms the knowledge of
                                                                                              hunger for a
certain
color.   
Call
the
thought police, the word police, the god police.  He knows
and I’m not scared.  Chances are, chances took.  
Who do you
                   think you are?  
With no fighting chance, fat chance now.
 it was a long shot in the first place.  
So what, I ramble, rant.  
My words, they mean
                                                                                                 something, 
at
least  to
me.  
The grind no longer works and  I’m no longer working out
        the grind.  it's said, Don’t sweat the
                                             small
                                            stuff, so
                                                this
                                                     is how I sweat it out.  
Not
 everything has to be a
masterpiece. Sometimes you just spit
                 it out, work it out and wipe your hands, your feet...
                        of dust and sudor.  
Not everything needs to be
                                     super hard.  I’ll align it how I do, how I can,
                                                       adjusting how I do every now and
                                                                      then. 
 So what if no one
                                                                                  says I see or means 
a
flipping thing when they
talk to
me. 
So what if I saw contrast in what you said and what you
                                                                                              did. 
 I’ve owned
my share of alteration.  There’s irony, comparison to go
           around so everyone can own their share.  
how much
                         difference can there be
                                                                      between slavery and
captivity.  
you Dot your Is and cross your ts and I’ll tittle my
         ts and divide
my is and bear my cross cause The coast is clear now, it’s a
         sunshiny day and I’m seeing better than ever before.
                                                                                                   Verbs may
                                                                                                   vibrate but
not
    those nouns, so
I’m steadying up and standing
                                                         ground.  There was resonation
for a while but resignation
                                               now because I’m not married to a color
                                                        but to sound.  red’s as good as
   cobalt and sea flows like blood and I see pearls emerging
      out of
both.  WE’re all
                              let off the hook, not graded on a curve.  In a
                                                                    new york minute, the blink,
                                                                         wink of a twinkle in the
                                                                                                              eye, we’ll
                                                                                                               each tip
                                                                                                                         the wink and quickly point it firm.
                                                             




T.S. Poetry
Sunday Whirl

Red

Revelatory red:
         The blood you shed;
so red, it shocks, the very nature by which it was poured out, to cleanse,
                                                 blood red to purify, to make as white as snow.
So beyond any human comprehension and so your words
                                                                            we wrote
and read in red, in Your Word, Your gift of Good News, the gift of sacrifice and red the wine
we pour and drink to bring us back, to remind us of that gift.
Lips
stained red on Mary Magdalene as she traded in false beauty, the painfully inadequate
                         mere promise of beauty she falsely
                                                                  felt with man, traded it in
                                                                  for the One and Only Man who could and
would see her true beauty, the beauty that He alone could truly give her.
Red, the rocks, the sun, the rose, the embellishments of Your creation, all pointing,
                                                                                                        all praising,
                                                                                                        all reflecting
Your glorious name.
Red, every tongue which will
confess, every knee raw that will surely bow, that stays kneeled in prayer, rubbed
raw, rubbed red for the healing, the safety found there.
Red, our hearts, when made of flesh, that yearn for Yours, our heart’s desire.
Red, the apple that was eaten that caused the red of rage that caused a world gone bad to
        try and eradicate all truth, all love.
        Those shades and shades of true love, the only importance, the true romance.
                    And red on fire, we for You when we truly see the way it’s meant to be.
But red the mocking of a hell that taunts us, that calls us in, robs us with its heat, its false
comfort promised here on earth.
Red, your eyes, wet from tears when we look away, when we see not your tears, but only
ours.
Red, a color of our celebration of Your birth, Your fame. A fame we, too often,
                                                          hide behind false reds of holly and suited bearded men.
The loss of red from Virgin Mary when she was one
of maybe too few who heard your call, who accepted that great honor, an honor veiled in
             the doubt and suspicion of this cynical world.
Red, a color of my flag, that once waved in honor of a freedom only You could bestow,
                                                                                                                but
now trampled on, because we’ve forgotten the One who gave it all, the price of true
freedom; not a country’s freedom but a world’s freedom if they will come, red eyed,
                 themselves,
                 to the cross where that red blood poured out and only lay it all down; see red.
                 Through the rage and through the pain came the beauty of a Savior,
                    of a resurrection and maybe there’s no red in Heaven.
                                                  Maybe it was left here for us, an entirely human color;
                                                    a revelatory
                                                       red.