Transforming Faith: Perspectives on Circumstance.

Sometimes we need only spread out.

It is different from spreading thin.

Our souls long to stretch,

take in more oxygen

or lay on top of it.

Gliding, we take the winding

road down the staircase of air.

A dissention over each step,

floating just above circumstance.

Faith, the scaled wings of blood,

bears us up on perspectives

laden with grace.



A butterfly’s most dramatic anatomical features are its wings. They’re made of an extremely thin, transparent material called chitin stretched over a series of vein-like structures. The forewings are closer to the butterfly’s head and are roughly triangular. The hindwings are closer to the tail and are shaped like fans or seashells.

The colors and patterns come from layers of tiny scales. It’s easy to think of these as similar to fish scales, but they’re structured more like short, tiny hairs. These scales protect the wings and provide insulation. Typically, the scales on the top of a butterfly’s wings are brightly colored, while the scales and the underside are patterned for camouflage.

At first, the wings are wet and wrinkled. The butterfly has to expand and dry them as soon as it emerges from the chrysalis. To do this, it uses its body as a pump and forces fluid through a series of tube-like veins. It’s a little like inflating a balloon — as the veins fill with fluid, they slowly stretch the surface of the wings.

Photo by Roberto Gonzalez

Transposition: The Heat Of Light Has Its Effects.


The cloudscape

scraped the sides,

and wayward beams

invaded the lows.

A push down

and in.

Strands of yellow

light weaved

where fog

and mist

were wrested.

The quilted air

pried from

the sculpted knolls

was lifted by

a yellow oscillation.

Together, they were

a secret.

Separate, they are

a mystery.


Genesis 1:3



Photo courtesy of Jessica Szopinski. Guatemala

>Space Bar

I sidled up to the space bar
and asked for a cold one.
Something fresh,

and letters slid down,
full of froth,
flipped and painted
my nails.

Good company.
We spoke of
Robert Burns
as if he sat here
with us after a long
day of white space.

Why is it we are
compelled to push
down so hard.
So far a distance
for fingertips to ride
our ABC’s.

I remember the night
we laughed at a
fingertip push up
We were young
and strong and pushed
the keys effortlessly
like machine gun fire.

And what was with
the pencil in the mouth
like we were dogs
slobbering on bones?

We were so hard on
the return handle
like a cold slap
on our royal face.

Those were the days
when it was so physical
and our metacarpals
flexed their mini
biceps, and 40 wpms
would impress the

Now we raise our mouses
and click them like
wine glasses and
our fingertips are
as soft as a baby’s

We rarely crumple
paper anymore.
We delete with
a stern pointed finger.

How ’bout one more
cold one fellas, eh?

One Stop Poetry invites you to stir the tanks with a picture prompt over at One Shoot Sunday…give it a go…