Lead skies 

Invaders hang from the sky above, chasing away my sun, mornings and child. From lead skies I come, wrapped in the arms of my enemy.”  -beth


I had the opportunity to speak with a refugee, 

she had come from lead skies, 

her land torn from war, and an uprising of terrorist. 

Writing this prose had taken me some time. Insights to war that have changed me and caused me to question my own understandings of war and wars complexities. My views on war have been pale and short sighted until I met her. She said this to me and I’ll never forget it, stills rings through me. “I have come to be wrapped in the arms of my hidden enemy but of this I dare not speak.” 

For those interested the link below will bring you to the prose. For some this maybe triggering. 

I hope that I have given her words life and her voice a platform. 

Thank you to all who read this. 

http://spillwords.com/lead-skies/

The writer and reader

The writer,

drowns in the words most fear to touch, for they know, words pleasing to the senses can never bring redemption. 

The writer,

lives twice through a single word, that most, cannot bare passing through but once. 

The writer, 

can undress and dress a corpse, with a single word, shattering unredeemed bodies, redeeming the stalest of hearts and awakening a soul succumbed to deep droze.  

The writer, 

dresses the mind in the languages of Poe and by night undresses with the utterances of Dickinson, knowing there are two words for ever moment. 

The writer,

can form from a word, pages of emotions that flow over the reader like a wave, stirring questions(if allowed), and bring one to a place of crowded loneliness, and frettings of the mind, that the reader may rediscover for themselves, the chaotic beauty of words, their majesty and  catch and release. For the writer knows, a single word catches the soul, bringing one to their knees, that by morning release may come. 

 

Cotton candy 

As I sit here, watching a child/children eat cotton candy and  work on my next poem, I can’t help but think this; 

Who are we becoming? 

It’s our duty to hand certain things to up and coming generations and we are failing for many different reasons. 

These children are innocent in all this, they haven’t taken anything from anyone, their voices weak and often unheard and we are taking away their future, we are taking away what we have been entrusted to hand down. 

From them we are stealing what they have rights too. 

They rely on us to be a voice, a voice they can trust, they rely on us to do right by them. To see and speak what is just. They need us to hand them a country, a land healed,  a country they can feel safe in. A country that works for them, not against them. 
  

Pocket full of pennies

Ive written this poem about a 4 year old boy and his imagination. 

I set out to write a story about his parents but this child grab my attention. His patents in the middle of financial hardship, his fathers job lose and the strain placed on the mother, this child’s never land, right out his back door. 

“In this place, his bodyweightless, like a child’s rhyme.”

“In this place, paper boats float.” 

http://spillwords.com/pocket-full-of-pennies/

Hope you enjoy the read