Come Forth

Born forgetting my identity,
Imago Dei coursing through my veins,
but lies strangled the truth.

The Creator says, “Come Forth!”

Wrapped in lies as grave clothes,
I stumble through, wondering if I will ever be free.

The Creator declares, “Come Forth!”

I glimpse freedom through tightly wound cloths.
Elusive, out of reach.

The Creator shouts, “Come Forth!”

I take a step into truth,
I watch the lies unravel as I embrace Imago Dei.
Resurrection flows in my veins, bringing life.

Megan Burmester
July 31, 2018

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Labels

“Liberal”
“Addict”
“Homeless”
“Prostitute”
“Lesbian”
“Black”
“Poor”
“Orphan”
“Overweight”
“Hispanic”
“Narcissist”
“Christian”
“Feminist”
“Homophobe”
“Refugee”
“Conservative”
“Asian”
“Gangster”
“Atheist”
“Misogynist”
                         “ (fill in the blank)

Labels we stamp on others (and ourselves). Aren’t we all beautiful humans, made in the image of God? Labels take away our humanity, our shared experience and our dignity.

Dissolve them.
Dissolve them.

Megan Burmester
August 2, 2018

Zero Gravity

Walk on eggshells.
Don’t rock the boat.
It’s quite a feat to stay light on my feet.

How little must I weigh to keep from breaking eggshells?
How still must I stand to not make any waves?

I became zero gravity to navigate life with you.
Internally, I volcanoed; outwardly, I floated along,
never daring to crunch those damn eggshells or rock that boat.

I HAVE THOUGHTS OF MY OWN.
Splash!
I DON’T AGREE WITH YOU!
Crunch, crunch.
NO, I DON’T THINK SO.
Crunch, crunch, SPLASH!

I am me. I am weighty. I make waves.

Megan Burmester
August 4, 2018

 

No More Hiding

The old projector whirs to life.
Silently, images flash on screen.
I edit heavily.
After all, no one knows the real me.
The me I project, well, I like her!

Meanwhile, in the flickering darkness,
I hide my disfigurement.
The real me, tucked away safely.

The me I project seems funny, smart, kind.
The real me? She wants to be the center of the universe.

Who gets to peek behind the curtain?
Maintaining the illusion is tiring.

The me I project fights to keep the projector running;
Fear etched onto her perfect face.
The real me emerges out of the darkness, blinking
into the Light.  No more hiding.

Megan Burmester
July 23, 2018

Middle of the Night Musings

Do we have enough cauliflower? I think as I drift off…

That dang light is annoying!
Did I take my magnesium?

I’m awake. It’s the middle of the night and I’m awake.

I need to write that card and grate the cheese.

Is the cat barfing? If I lay quietly, pretend I’m asleep,
maybe Bean will clean it up.

I’m awake. It’s the middle of the night and I’m awake.

Stop thinking about being awake. Just rest. Shhhhhh!
Just rest… I FORGOT TO CALL SO AND SO!

What was that line of poetry I composed?
I can’t remember, dammit.

I’m awake. It’s the middle of the night and I’m awake.

My hip hurts. Oh gosh, is it something serious?
I need to stretch. Maybe I need to see a doctor?

Did I just dream about spiders, avocados and
getting my son to practice on time?

I’m awake. It’s the middle of the night and I’m awake.

I have to pee. If I lay quietly and ignore it, maybe
the sensation will go away.

What time is it? Don’t look at the clock. Just rest.
Shhhhhh. Just rest.

I’m asleep. It’s time to wake up and I’m dead asleep.

 

Megan Burmester
July 4, 2018

Inny or Outy?

I’ve lived my whole life concerned about what others think of me.
          I care too much what others think!
Inny or Outy;
          Internally directed or outwardly led?
Do I live outwardly, hungry for approval or inwardly, approving of myself?
          Inny or Outy, what shall it be?
Will they like this poem?
          Do I like this poem? is a better question. 
I DON’T CARE WHAT OTHERS THINK,  I yell vehemently!
          Yet, I do.
Less and less, though.
          Less and less.

Megan Burmester
June 28, 2018

Zinger

Her words slip sweetly, serenely from her lips,
slicing me deeply as they glide by.

All becomes still as I let them sink in,
razor-sharp, wounding.

Pain searing; guilt and shame crowding as usual.

Shock pulses through my body yet I’m not surprised
by the familiar hurt.

Rage spurts forth, crimson in color.
It takes everything in me to sheath my tongue,
a steely weapon.

Words. Words carelessly (or not so carelessly)
slung inflict pain, tumble out easily.
Retracting them impossible.

Carefully, I lift out the dagger.
Gently, Truth binds my wound.
Healing flows as I let go.

Megan Burmester
June 30, 2018