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Thursday, July 27, 2017

Step Into the Blur




Step Into the Blur

Stand firm
in your body: it will not melt
if darkness falls.

Cocoon
your soul, swaddle it, strap it
to your chest.

Your heart
learns faith like a song,
each step a chorus.

Realize: you stand
at the edge of all maps.
Fear is your scout.

You carry
your own light like a flint.
Strike that stone

within you;
sparks fly out, seek tinder,
catch fire.

In the blur
you do not fear dragons.
Out on the edge,

you are
the dragon.
Test your wings.


Deborah A. Miranda

Sunday, July 23, 2017

Looking For a River




We pass the long blue and white
tent, chairs set in sedate rows,
men and women silent shadows

in the heat; preparing for a revival,
they pay us no mind as our car
tires whine past on soft asphalt.

A bay horse grazes in a field; black
Angus stand belly-deep in a farm pond,
tails switching flies, heads down like

somnolent statues cut out of starless
skies.  On and on we drive, a little lost,
following the thread of a shaky map.

We’re looking for a river.  We’re looking
for a fresh green current, swirls of mica,
trout circling the kettle like holy ghosts.

We’re looking for the long white banner
of a waterfall, the hidden path behind  
a plume of mist and ragged lace.

When we get there, we’ll slide across
slick dark gray rocks, push aside moss
cascading out of deep cracks like prophets.

We’ll crawl into that cool dark space
behind the veil, listen to the river preach:
granite gospel from the mouth of a mountain.

Deborah A. Miranda