When I Say “I Miss You…”

When I Say “I Miss You…”

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When I say I miss you, I mean,

I miss the way I feel when we kiss.

I miss the sight of you in my eyes.

I miss the vision of you in my mind.

My fingertips miss the touch of your skin.

My mouth misses the ruby red of your lips.

Other people can keep all the dandelion seeds,

I don’t need wishes or dreams anymore…

not where I’m headedimg_20170510_153217252_34582475006_o

Let other lovers lie to each other and themselves,

hiding behind words always left  unsaid.

My ears miss our conversation full of strong gentle words:

mostly confessions, musings, and music.

I miss the steady gaze… the care, the love–

your eyes full of starlight stop my breath when you stare…

my hands miss holding the brown and black gold of your hair.

My feet are not cold:  when faced with glory or

another short chapter in the story of my life

the only sin would be in not going where God has led them.

27946070322_7a44a7a8bb_oLet the ones who have zeroes and commas

on their bottom line enjoy all the riches of this world.

Let those who crave fame have their flames fanned

by the applause of all the hands on the planet.

Let those who hunger for power instead of bread

slowly grow cold with the need for control…

I would rather be loving you instead.

The Beginning

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Jefferson Holbrook, DSC, received a Doctor of Science in Communications from Tudor College of Earlscroft University and has published numerous essays, articles, poems, short stories and blogs. He is also the author of two collections of poetry. He lives with his family in the southeastern United States.

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© Copyright 2017 Jefferson Brian Holbrook and Kingdom of the Son. All rights reserved.

Sighing Language

Sighing Language

In the beginning was the Song

and the Song was God

and She was the Song.

God sang the worlds into creation.

So when She sighs, She sires.

Then life happens, and shit happens,

and all manner of things happen.

This life is what transpires before we expire,

lying broken, battered, bones shattered on the mat…

but before… before you are lying in state… intestate.

before it is too late,

we are on a mission, walking on a wire,

listening to liars, frolicking with friars, dancing with dryads,

we are on fire, on a pyre

misjudged by our misunderstood magic,

then sliding heavenward higher and higher.

Azure and ArgentThen our mission is to guard the living,

guide them in forgiving, blessing the barren land,

the dry cracked earth with gentle rains

the essence of evaporated dreams and steam

of holy water from the timestream.

When winter splinters and surrenders,

we bless the remnant, the rag-tag,

the stressed, the all-that-is-left,

with sudden spring showers,

and those who remain blessed, maintain that they

can see salvation in the blatant beauty of a flower…when?

“No one knows the day or the time.”28650609014_539576ddb6_o

But then She

will find me free in a place we used to be,

sheltered on all sides with safe cliffs on three

and the water on one, in the lee of a cove.

In that cover we wait.

We wait for lovers wiser than we,

or wiser, at least, than me.

Yet still you may find me, says She,

when you search for me with your whole heart:

carefully

prayerfully.

And may we find ourselves at the end;

after we’re buried, carried along the path,

and at the end of the path, a clearing:

once a field of clover now covered with roses since.

We find our freedom then in becoming light and sky

twinkling like the fires of distant suns

with the same spark we find in young shy eyes.

One with the argent and the azure,

the blue and the white of clouds and sky.

Heaven is never having to ask “why?”

Over what once was a field of clover,

now covered with roses since…

Over this carpet of purple and red petals

Rises the brightest whitest moon we have ever seen,

and we hear the song we have become,

listening long into the eternal night at the silence,

we listen

then whisper

with wisdom.

 

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Jefferson Holbrook, DSC, received a Doctor of Science in Communications from Tudor College of Earlscroft University and has published numerous essays, articles, poems, short stories and blogs. He is also the author of two collections of poetry. He lives with his family in the southeastern United States.

@jbh418

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© Copyright 2016 Jefferson Brian Holbrook and Kingdom of the Son. All rights reserved.

Somehow the darkness always finds a way.

Yet the rain on my face is a blessing,

lessening the pain of too many days in the sun.

The rain on my face is a grace,

erasing the stains of so many sin-filled days in the sun.

The rain on my face creates rivers running down

my cheeks as if with tears carrying away

all the sorrows I borrowed from my past.

The rain on my face is hard and the wind is strong.

Somehow the darkness always finds a way to heal me…

But I know it won’t last long.

Continue reading “‎Dorchadas Cneasaithe”

Septembrance

Septembrance photo 1

the softing of the sky feels like a light breeze

but it should be something more…

something more sane…

more like rain.

what do the heavens take for congestion

and pain…?

the sky is scarred and scudded with clouds

that hold no promise

only a faint suggestion of rain.

the storm is straining for release

but being

held back by a tight leash.

this is that time of heavy treads and anticipation

when the world waits in trepidation.

the dry grounds cracks, splitting slightly,

then pulling apart

gaping more widely.

children run and jump and play, stumbling.

tripping, slipping, they fall, unaware of

the dangers of sliding all the way to hell.

they forgot the ground’s warning, the rumbling,

they forgot the strangers’ mumbling,

all they can remember is the pain

of skinned knees and hot tears

and no one there

to wipe the blood or calm the fears.

let August fall to September

let September surrender to October

let me sleep until i no longer remember,

just wake me when it’s over. because,

this is that time when all the words have been said

and trust has been bent all the way backwards

like thin metal,

and when the dust settles, the silence that is left

is something almost, but not quite, dead.

the silence steals over us like  something

humid…thick, sticky and electric..

lightning that is afraid to strike…

but i am not afraid to go outside

take me where the air is thick with ozone,

i am quick and don’t care if i have to go alone,

let the thunder come and yell it’s abuse

i will not run.

what’s the use?

when you are at your weakest

and feel like you can’t go on any longer

you begin to suspect that while

your roots are deep and wide,

that the wind might be a little bit stronger…

so let the lightning split my limbs

from my trunk and let the burning

consume me

as the light rain begins to finally fall…

find me free

in the place we used to be

when the flames take me

branches, leaves, and all.

Septembrance photo

© Copyright 2015. Words and Photos by Jefferson Holbrook.

All Rights Reserved.