1. |
(G)row
01:23
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"I think.. creativity needs a lot of space to grow."
A friend said that to me the other day on a voice memo as I sat next to a pillow by a
window, on the sil of which grows a single sprig of cilantro.
I immediately thought of the numerous times I'd readjusted this vine like herb and how, no
matter what, it would defiantly curve into some new drape, reshape it's landscape, and behave...creatively.
Whether it's aunts or plants or the celoecanth, sneaking out to dance, to climb, or swimming in colder waters away from those grubby scientists with their grubby hands, every creature bears the same resonant feature: to fill the spaces and stay alive, we become creative.
If you stop growing, you stop showing signs of life.
If you start slowing, you'll stop forcing oxygen through your gills, your sense of thrill will atrophy, you'll start to swill the addictive nothingness of passivity into a gut made for ever new things.
No longer captains on the sea of actively seeking a creative means by which to pine through the brine into the uncharted territories of the heart that God gave, we sink.
Don't sink. (G)row.
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2. |
Fortress
01:51
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The rocket reeled
A brilliance burning before billions of backs turned on hope
Scientific minds wracked with failure, bottling the smallest glimmer of culture behind tempered glassy eyes to the son/sun
He toddles, barely one.
Found, loved, and alone.
Coddled, like a bullet in a gun.
Beneath the blue beneath the yellow; beneath the sky beneath the sun.
Fly home
Hold tight to the breeze, the hands you swing between, lest you strike your foot against the stone
With love, his Ma sowed hope into his chest that he might reap goodness and walk abreast with the rest.
"Put your hand to the plow, and don't turn your head," Pa said. "The earth is fallow ground and man worth his weight in red threads."
But you dread being left in the end with the stars growing dim; being feared and misunderstood by men; and hurting them. So you hold back.
But those lenses you see the world from within can be broken. So take off those glasses and put down the newspaper with which you identify; people see what they want to see, and not what's right before their eyes. But even a bat could see it's you they put their hope in.
Clearly, it's the mask that makes you human.
But no fortress can save you from feeling alone.
No matter how small that emerald wizard makes you feel, you're as brave as a blizzard, so click your heels and
fly home.
You're not a canvas anymore, you're a cityscape.
Painted in blue by all who raised you and phased you out, for pity's sake, draped across the nape of a world who needs you now.
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3. |
Ancients (A Retelling)
01:29
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The air we breathe is ancient, and heaves dust throughout it's lungs.
Fracturing when plain men sing, with every bell that’s wrung.
Blend of the dead and the living, of the rains and the dusts.
Incubates, destroys, sustains, rewards, and rusts.
God made dirt, but clodded pores won't cure our pain
We play tattoos for a fool, working out crafts in vain
If I grip sand and coal, will I form diamond or gold?
Or will it slip through my fingers, a shattered toast to my shame?
Will we find solace in labour, and in the strain of our knuckles?
Will we be honest with neighbors, or, under obstinance, buckle?
Have we truly been convinced in our own minds of our masks?
Have we engraved with autonomy the very
knives in our backs?
We gasp as the sweat of our brow fills our cup.
We drown in rivers of death as they flow from our gut.
We are trees planted by the Wellspring of life, vining our roots around a gravestone whose name reads "STRIFE."
Breathe deep.
The timeless seeps in.
Glasses emptied, and filled with the ancient. Finding Y/your name again.
Turn the faucet. Let it bleed thin.
Speak your peace, and weep, to a circle of friends.
Straight from the ocean floor of an age forgotten, down the cheek of the honest at his end.
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Micah Kimber, Mustache Poetry Richmond, Virginia
My heart is to Love and connect with others by sharing art.
We're each valuable individuals, made in God's image, with
art worth sharing.
If you create, share. If you aren't creating, scared of how it'll turn out or how others will respond, I understand. But art is self expression. It's for YOU first. If it's real, you'll want to be heard and someone will hear.
If anything, share it with me.
... more
Micah Kimber, Mustache Poetry recommends:
It's All Joy
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Chris's latest album, It's All Joy, is such a solid spoken word release. His faith shines clearly through the lense of Love and hard hitting truth, challenging our perspectives of reality and faith.
go to albumIf you like Micah Kimber, Mustache Poetry, you may also like:
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Body Of Work
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