Tuesday, April 17, 2012

I took to these streets like a cucaracha takes to light,
I retreated into hiding and hiding was my fight.
It’s hard to be hidden when you standout,
It’s living life angry with a silent shout.
You can’t show weakness, suffering, or pain
And you fight like hell not to place blame.
Because excuses only lead to bad decisions
Of you living a life of drugs and fatal illusions.
But when you keep the blame and responsibility
You become a man who takes advantage of opportunity.
“No hay mal que por bien no venga”
And I live by that, “con la pata larga”.  

I’m sure the folks that know me now wouldn’t even believe my “how”.
I’m sure they would assume I was cut from fine cloth
Never understanding or knowing these streets I’ve fought off.
These streets may have made me, but they did not enslave me.
I ran and I ran until I reached a freer land.
Beaten and bullied, starved and shunned, still I stand.
So when you look at me know that these streets made this man.

A Love Note

I don't know you from water,
but I know you from beauty...
you are so acquainted with it.
I’ve only seen you from afar
I’ve only known you through words.
Perhaps there is a reason we are here today.
I can only imagine that you are what love is.
And, I swear to you, my love is strong.
But, you better be true with yours.
Because this heart is sown together,
By far from new.
If you are looking to take one more time
Then you gotta know that I will test you.
So come if you choose.
Do what you must.
I promise you nothing.
But, if you win…you win.
And, I will be your greatest joy.

My Dream

Though my breath is cold and faint
I have a breath.
My dream is still alive.
And right now my heart beats weak
But it still beats.
My dream is still alive.

Though it feels like I’m drowning in a sea of my own tears
I have hope that the last one is soon to come.
My dream is still alive.
And even though it feels like the joke is on me
I can laugh
Because my dream is still alive.

Though I’m not on my feet
I’m not on my back.
My dream is still alive.
And even though it feels like
I am losing blood from my wounded heart
I know that all I need is just one ounce
To keep my dream alive.

I’ve lost a lot of battles
But the war is far from being done.
For wars are won not at the beginning or middle,
But in the end when one stops fighting.
People can and will call me a lot of bad names,
But, quitter, will never be one.
My dream is still alive.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Love's Redemption



          In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth…He created them beautiful, glorious, amazing…PERFECT.  He shared this with us—Man and Woman alike.  Now, at some point his WORD tells us that He repented from his creation.  That is to say, he turned his back on us.  I don’t think it was because He didn’t want us anymore…no, no…It was because He loved us, and it was more than He could bare to watch us ugly, sinful, evil creatures hurt him who shared something beautiful with us.  And, yet, He loves us.   
          I would like to think that the reason He still loves us is because He still sees our beauty—some remnant of it.  Beauty in the morning—just before we wake from our peaceful slumber (how we all look so innocent and vulnerable)—when the Sun greets the mountaintops.  Beauty when a child is born into a loving mother’s arms—there’s never so much love than that first moment.  Beauty when we pray for his miracle—in that moment we truly believe He could make it happen.  Beauty when the Sun slowly falls asleep behind the ocean…and another day is done. 
          Let’s not forget that beauty that’s called night, where stars and moons kaleidoscope in the sky and show off his mystery.  In that night when fear strikes our souls and we are comforted by the thought, the Lord is my Sheppard, how beautiful it must be for him to see this faith in our hearts. 
          You see…there’s still beauty in the world—however hard it may be to find (and growing harder every day).  Beauty will always find its way to shine…even in the darkest of times…the hardest of hearts…and in the presents of an evil world.  Beauty will fight till its sweeter end…to keep our hope for Loves redemption alive.  What greater force for God to use than Love to keep us very aware of what is Beautiful…and to remind us why He still tries.
          Love will always find a way into our hearts—and that is beautiful.  And, history has shown us that the culprit to tragedy—murder, suicide, wars, deceit, stealing— is often the beauty of a woman and the love of a man.  Even in the most tragic love stories there is that thing of beauty we all see that it makes falling in love all worth it.  So, sometimes beauty is its own demise in fighting for the cause of redemption. 
           
     Yes, beauty comes in many forms, in many ways, and for many reasons; but, none the better 

than when you meet Beauty itself in the form of a woman, and in the way of love. 

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Flash Fiction


*This is flash fiction. The point is to get the most out of the least. The first story is over 100 words, watch how I get it down to under 50. The question for you is, did I get it done???

Beautiful Times

She loved him so much.  Especially his smile that greeted her hostility no matter how angry she was at him.  She was always so upset with him, for nothing really, she thought. 
            “Stop it!!!  I hate when you do that.”  She seemed to be always saying.
            “Ya, but if I died tomorrow, you’d wish I’d do it again.”  His charmed response that still cuts her deep.
            “Why…Why did you have to say that to me?”  She repeats to herself every time she gets in those quiet moments where she remembers those annoying things he’d do: the toilet seat up; drinking from the bottle; gazing at the TV (instead of her).
She sits again in that familiar place and guilt pours over to tears, and she cries one last time, “Honey, please do it again…one last time.
***********************************************************************

She loved him so much. 
“I hate when you do that.”  She always said.
“When I die you’ll wish I’d do it again.”
When she gets lonely she remembers and thinks, “Why did you say that to me?”  She sits, guilty, and cries one last time, “Honey, please do it again.”
 ***********************************************************************


“I hate when you do that.”  She often said.
“When I die you’ll wish I’d do it again.”  He said.
Now he’s gone and she can hear his words.  Guilty, she cries one last time, “Honey, please do it again.”