For those who would see
the cover of the book that is me
and dismiss this poem as virtue signalling, that is fine,
But I assure you I’d rather sit and listen
to either the words coming from the mouth of the reverend mr. or miss ginger
Divine, rather than have to stand
and open mine, let alone that he, she, they, we are an integral part in marrying my wife and I in this life intertwined.

But God put it on my heart to write this,
staying up the last two days and nights with a guiding light inside that’s ready at a moment’s notice to be an ally and fight this. To seek the spirit for words I might miss, and replace hatred with the sacred so those present and awake can revel in its brightness. And not just the likeness, but the real deal who still feels the desire to sign up on open mics lists.

Come gather round people, whoever you are, let me tell you of Kingdom Living,
both near, inside here, as well as eternally far,
As it is the gift that keeps on giving.
And if you will not make safe space,
Then you disgrace this place, you’re own embarassed face, the human race, and God’s whole plan through Grace.

I’d rather be the keeper of the dream than the bigoted meme, who first read Don Quixote and learned the difference between letters and arms, for storytelling we can see, and it would seem, helps heal the wounds from the shortsighted world’s harms.

My Lord and Savior told many stories, and let the guided light shine through the colorful prisms, for those sitting listening to figure out the point and further know,
Just as these children before me smack dab in the middle of this disjointed world with its schisms and isms hoping to be glistening as they’re anointed and grow.

I remember when we’d lay, after recess at play, or we could sit if we may, it was our choice either way. It was story time. It was time to be quietly mesmerized by a portion of a story, or the whole thing, if it was a short story, and my heart would sing.

I loved ‘The Indian in the Cupboard’, not much of a PC title in retrospect, but enthrawling now and then, as one might expect.
I loved ‘The Castle in the Attic’, and more, of make believe, heightened by drama and grown exponentially by diversity, inclusion, mutual safety, perspective, and striving to demonstrate love and empathy.
It was story time that first taught me empathy, love for others I hadn’t ever even met,
besides my mind when I finally drifted to sleep at night, dreaming of characters I’d never forget.

I think the children want to hear stories.
I think we should allow children, whose parents want them to be here to be read to. Who knows, with all of those to and fros, the children may disclose a wise epiphany as to how love bats last, wins in the end, and constantly grows, as God would intend to.

Or else, they may say something of connectivity, imagination, assessment, as to how the moral came to be. Well as the
moral itself, as they may see.
We can discuss as we go, or just read and set our dreams free. Seems to me, that you wouldn’t wanna impede, the furthest extended potential of these Kings and Queens to be.

Sitting in this room may be the cure to cancer, the next great coach or sensei,
while we’re busy bickering over questions, sitting here is the answer, so only if you’re sitting here perfect may you cast the first stone and then say what you have to say.

These children are sponges for spirit, eager for purpose and meaning, so as you’re venomously barking be constantly aware they hear it, and give way to a life less demeaning.

There’s enough vitriol being cast about on facebook and twitter,
There’s enough hate being spouted and shouted from the streets,
So please let these beautiful souls be a literary child sitter,
and softly read to these kids uplifting words from these sheets.

Our youth are thirsty for wisdom and hungry for a better world,
As we teach them to get along with and play nice with their friends,
For every choice we make before each beautiful boy and gorgeous girl,
Helps the earth grow, or else, it helps it end.

Everyone here sitting, laying, or standing, was born with the exact same amount of the image of God,
Everyone has a soul, and a spirit which longs to truly be free,
So as the youth have a propensity for wonderment coursing through the veins of their bod,
It is our job as the surrounding village to aid and help fulfill how they see.

I, the more boringly dressed onlooker, with a lot less glam, and a little less glow,
should listen with my two ears and one mouth, hoping to learn something I need to, but didn’t already know,
for we’re all in the same boat, on the same river’s road, and we all need to do our part to row,
So this older and straight,
chooser of love over hate,
is gonna try to pay back the debt of love that I owe. And I know I can’t pay it back no matter how far off the charts that I go.
This one white, cisgender male, conservative christian’s gonna stop spittin’ and sit listening after saying “On with the show!”


Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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