If Jesus went to the WH

When Donald Trump was elected, I saw this meme.

white house

I threw up a little in my Jesus-loving mouth.

First of all, Jesus ain’t got baggage. According to, ya know, THE BIBLE!

Second, and most importantly, the only way Jesus would have gone to the White House was with a whip or on a cross.

I would personally love to see Jesus whipping all of Congress and driving them out. The money changers. The corruptors. The sellouts. The evil-doers. Let’s do that at the polls this November, y’all. Let’s be the Jesus in the halls of Congress. Turning tables and clearing the house.

If the White House is your temple, if this is where your Jesus resides? Whosoever shall believe in this meme…we ain’t readin’ the same Bible, y’all.

Crafty B out.

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Cheerleader

We stand on the shoulders
Of the women who come before us
Don’t stop your loud chorus
Don’t let them ignore us
Don’t let your sister fall
Call your anthem tall
Straighten your back, lock those arms
Drop your wiles and feminine charms
They will only weigh you down, way down
Fly to the top of this pyramid
Let loose your yawp of spirit, Kid
Be a cheerleader for your own team.


Love other women.
Believe them.

work in progress

No penny I wouldn’t save
No journey I wouldn’t brave
No word left unsaid
A million tears I would shed
For your glory

No story I wouldn’t tell
Rain fire from war-torn hell
Allow me to burn
No lesson unlearned
To bring your peace

Pieces of heart
Start over with smart
Put evil away
Take out patience today
Live it all for love

Life is too hard
To avoid getting scarred
Bind these cuts
Give me guts
Sturdy my back for the fight

Right this soldier’s wrongs
Shoulder my burden with songs
Dive deep in my chest
Battle my demons to rest
Rock me down to sleep

Weep for the child I was
Made offerings for broken laws
Gave up my life
Extracted truth with a knife
Found your bright words in the night

Carved out all the cancer
Heard your sweet voice in an answer
Love is the key
Grace on your knees

Finish your work in me, please.

Fried Chicken and Dirty Dishes

Grandma’s kitchen.
Forgotten fried chicken.
Used, cold skillet.
Shimmering in congealed bacon fat.
Brown, yellow, orange matted carpet.
Clutter. Papers. Fly swatter. Plants.
Pepsi bottles.
Hum of the dingy fridge.
Greasy haze of low-light air.
Stale-flavored ice that can’t be cracked with mere teeth.
Dish upon dish.
So much that the sink disappears and one large dinner plate/utensil mound erupts from the countertop.
Dripping faucet plinking against tin.
Sad, somber, soft.
Dark, dirty, dull.
A small photo soaking in the developer of my brain.
Your watery image takes shape and fades quick.
You existed. I remember.

For My Cowgirl

Another repost poem. Happy birthday, Pencil Princess!

The picture on the post is Lilli wearing my dad’s old straw cowboy hat.


Before I had a girl,
I thought she’d steal my husband’s heart.
I was scared of sharing,
Expecting battle from the start.

What I didn’t know
Is that she stole my heart instead.
I wanted Dad to heap
Love and kisses on her head.

My daughter is my strength.
She’s taught me more than I could teach.
She’s my tough defender
When I’m sick or sad or weak.

She’s my will, she’s my power.
She’s my endless, eternal drive.
She’s the reason I get up.
She’s the reason I’m still alive.

Before I had a girl,
I didn’t understand
How much I’d love another girl.
I’m her biggest fan.


Love you, Cowgirl.

Sister

This is a repost of a poem for my daughter on her birthday tomorrow!
Happy 15, baby!


I wish I had a sister.
I have two of my own.
But they were always busy.
I was growing up alone.

I wish I had a sister
Who took the time to teach
How to love myself,
How to aim beyond my reach.

Or even how to brush my hair,
Set makeup on my cheek.
I wish I had a sister
Not a rival, so to speak.

I wish I had a sister.
One that loved being my friend.
I wish I had a sister.
Someone to count on ’til the end.

Someone to value me.
Someone to hold me close.
Someone to pull me up and in.
Someone who let their feelings show.

A woman to show the way.
A friend to hold my hand.
A person who deeply cared.
Someone to understand.

I never had a sister
Until I finally went through birth.
My daughter is all I could ever want,
Best sister on this earth.

Patched-up Monster

Run my fingers along these stitches
My slick, sick skin in pale, pink patches
Red scars, dark dreams and seams
Snagged-up tissue in small light catches

If I’m a patched-up monster
Then what does that make you?
You are my creator
Working in sin and sinew

I acknowledge my birth and life
But I wish you wouldn’t have bothered
Especially when you hate
That which you have fathered

I pity us, this reckless wreck
Wreaking wrong, prescribing pain
Spent my life to break your neck
On the hope of a rope in ending insane

You meant to make me perfect
But don’t know what you’re doing
You played around with delicate parts
Left this bloody monster in ruin

I survive, pieced from scraps
Forgotten flesh upon the floor
You die of loneliness
But I live to rise once more

Blank Page

When the world sharpens me to a
fighting, biting, writing point
.
You are the velvet, toothy paper on which I wrestle.

The soft place that stores my hurt and heart.

I’m sorry.
Thank you.

You never tear.
Even with my harsh words and unrestrained pain.

Your blank page is a fluffy-white cloud of kindness and medicine.