Wind Storm, Lifting

Once, my Peace was a servant of 

suppression 

and never knew release

But then, She didn’t belong to me, 

but a God I was kept to believe,

the contempt of the man that claimed those 

“worthy”,  

a bishop inflamed, 

a father ashamed, a mother afraid 

of life away, of bills and exchange 

of receipt, and deceit,  

I have learned these many months

past, 

my Peace is found in expansion, 

compulsion, 

righteous disbelief 

For faith in an incomplete image of the divine, 

the man’s mocking make-up

of what he wish to be, 

has nothing to do with

The Father, The Mother, Godde on

high, 

And nothing to do with 

Me

My Peace is wet, and heavy and then

still, 

She is Branches breaking, 

She is Wind Storm lifting the seeds

and then 

leading them to richer ground, 

My Peace is mountains of ink on

fingers, 

and Running Running Running until my 

knees plead

My Peace is in grieving, 

is in holding her hand,

my Peace is in finding old earth in the

sand, 

my Peace was forged in the belly of the 

Sufferer, 

And now I reclaim Her name, 

She is Silence and Scream

She is Devotion despite hollowed piety,

She is Mine to keep, Mine to bleed,

Mine to name, and Mine to grieve

I build her up, and hold her close 

lay in Her grass and 

make a home on that soft plain,

I make her mine, and as I kneed

She tells all of what can be, 

Hollowed by Her Name