Around the age of six i received from my maternal grandpa
a very special present , he had styled a home made kite
Thick brown paper for the body , newspaper for the tail
couldn't get this kite to fly, tried with all my might
One day i heard my father loudly yelling
in reference to this kite
He had found it in a paddock
where I'd left it overnight
So the down the hill I ran
to retrieve this special kite
My father, reins of horse in one hand stock whip in the other
punishment for the crime, stock whip round the backside, most painfully it did bite
For a minor misdemeanour the punishment a trifle overdone
for my lack of care of grandpas special kite
Much shedding of tears from the bruising pain
I endured on that fateful night
The thread between him and me feel synthetic,
As he weaves its fabric with rush,
As he makes frantic efforts to chop the distance off,
As his desperate hands tighten the clasp,
He craves and drools over the smoothness of my skin,
My raw body feels it's pressure,
Bruising tender arms and muscles
I wake up to deep scars and marks,
And wonder to myself if that's what love is all about?
Words too often have rough edges,
bloody histories,
lines more defined
than relentlessly imaged cliffs,
worshipping sacred sunlight shades
of high hazards
Coveted risks
more than needed opportunities
to hard wall wail against wild creations
unmoved by words
without animated calling
longing
belonging
or wooing wilderness
Offending worded weapons
seducing well-schooled tools
Sounds with edges
and without
Opening and closing
edgeless sighing pause
Slowly awaiting surf's slow
slurried
soft
slavish turn
to reach for shores
absorbing thoughtless
sand-grained
edges.
Autumn alley, more COVID masks than leaves.
When the blues slipped into black
there was a bruising of the memory.
It will all pass, both the good and bad.
Like blood through a pane of broken glass.
Don't let dark moments stop the laughter.
Don't stop fighting the puppet master.
They're trying to end what we believe in.
Putting chains and fangs to the nape of Christ.
Damn fools are married to their folly and blight.
Can't help themselves, though.
They'll pay the toll in the next realm.
When their sashay slips into the broken hips of hell.
And those members of the body which we think to be less honorable, on these we bestow greater honor; and our unpresentable parts have greater modesty, but our presentable parts have no need. But God composed the body, having given greater honor to that part which lacks it, (I Corinthians 12:23, 24 NKJV)
It would be better for him if a millstone were hung around his neck, and he were thrown into the sea, than that he should offend one of these little ones. (Luke 17:2 NKJV)
To dishonour the honourable
To abuse it's innocence
A forever fact
Is an evil cradling.
The offence of sexual abuse
Bruises the tender parts...
Of the heart
And soul
And mind
And smile.
But healing comes from the God-view
That the dishonoured has greater honour
That He is the avenger
For those whom lack.
And there is much provision that heals...
The heart
The soul
The mind
The smile.
To those dishonoured...you have great honour from the One most entitled to give it.
Brutal barren breach,
Blasphemous beastly backbites,
Bruising blog babble.
~~
it is haiku but did it in alliteration..
battering is a pattern
of power and control
it begins with a threat
or punching the wall
in all of the cultures
most common of the victims
are the woman and the child
how so sickening
the trivial contacts
which further escalate
to serious attacks
or culminates
in sexual abuse
and unwanted activity
a huge social problem
in many varieties
so nice to outsiders
pleasant and charming
but behind closed doors
alarm bells are warning
establishing power
controlling another
a male privelage
from bruising to murder
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