Dancing on a moonbeam, They ask,
“What if we go to Earth next?”
“I’ve never known of
A more toxic planet.”
“I’ve heard of two,” they reply.
“And besides, they have Love there.”
“What,” they asked,
An immortal soul bewildered, “is that?”
“It’s this,” they say,
Gesturing to all of the Universe.
“But you feel it.”
“What is feeling?
That sounds terrible.”
But every being who has ever gone
Tells that the Love made it worth the trip.”
“I suppose it’s worth a try.
Come listen to the big drums
Of the cosmos, praying you to live
Weary as you might be.
This healing is your heartbeat
The prayers you bless the world with,
Bless yourself in the process.
There are no ancestors cheering for you.
Rather, they weep
Tears of wisdom,
Knowledge of the path to come
For they have walked it too,
But none ever so thoroughly as you.
You, breaker of patterns,
Collector of found feathers,
Rescuer of cockroaches
No creature unworthy.
Chosen one –
They had all been chosen, too.
Come listen to the big drums,
Singing from its cage,
Praying you to finish what they started
And bless the world.
I anoint a dead bird with holy water
from the memorial garden at the church where I grew up.
Weightless as it is lifeless, it knows not that I drape it with flowers
And say a prayer. I light a candle,
and beseech its spirit to bless other realms with its flight,
Continuing to and transcending its Highest Good.
Yellow is my favorite color, even on its still, soft feathers.
Means nothing here, in the heat of lingering summer.
Means nothing here, in tragedy upon tragedy –
Never a calm moment to catch one’s breath.
Means nothing here, in the garden of the church
That doesn’t preach of heaven.
We do not die. We learn
what lessons we came here for.
We reach the Highest Good
We can possibly achieve
And then, we fly
To the next adventure, leaving our bodies
Cold on the path to the front door,
So that other beings can anoint them
With holy water
For a Highest Good
That is so much more.
Guardian of dignity,
Champion of We
Who would be called “less than,”
For the tears will not dry
Upon our cheeks
Before we focus our grief
On all the work left to do.
May her memory be a revolution.
I drape my legs over the side of the bathtub
And my child splashes them with bubbles.
I think of Jesus washing the feet of his disciples.
I never felt unworthy until they put you in my arms,
Never felt terror until I counted your tiny breaths,
Never knew God until I saw your smile.
Baptized now by bubbles
And holy, well-earned tears,
I am saved.
HP Rivers, 2020
Who art on fire,
Mankind has stoked the flames.
Thy healers come
And tend thy wounds
So the earth shall become heaven.
Return these lands
To Her rightful stewards
And reconcile the trespasses
Committed against them.
Lead us to Truth and Reparation
To deliver us from evil.
For thine are the mountains
And the valleys,
And the plains,
For thine is this glory,
And we are merely visiting
The sky turned orange in California
And a six-year-old child
Died in the flames,
It poured and thundered in Florida,
And I quietly decided
That I’ll never have another child.
At the sound of thunder.
I think the kindest thing
I could possibly do
Is spare another brand new soul
From having to try and
Rise from the ashes.
For the mothers breathing ashes,
Wish them reprieve
From the thunder in their chests.
For Our Mother,
Who art in flames.
Wish her winds of healing
And rains of change.