In My Blind Spot
For the unnecessary line
Pieces of land
holding past and present bands
visible in my blind spot,
blemishes of time causing the
past to rewind.
Memories never fading
often jaded, captivated
and dissipated.
Sprinkled in the sand
an ever-changing space
of Russian roulette,
despite the human pace.
Always a wrinkle
that couldn’t take the heat.
Years go by
pieces of land detached,
from legacy reaching back towards
destiny - cleaved in high regard,
are the fruit bearers
tangible reeds from the blind spot
beyond the oak trees,
a bunch of legalese fermenting
Sadducees. Never knowing how-who-
when, the seeds of discord
were sown or grown again.
Blood was left behind
with lingering ties combined -
seizing the captive’s freedom
where sin grabbed a-hold
of its demise.
Linked to the old
familiar space
not to preclude the race
or a trace,
so lavishly graced.
Clearing the playing field
grasping what has been -
boasting what’s to come.
The spot where blood was shed,
tears flowed upon the face
of the wounded
captured in the colonies
of hypocrisy and scorned in the
reservoirs of recompense.
Each time the fires broke out
it brought new meaning -
of what’s bestowed in the revelry.
Not knowing to decimate
what’s in the blind spot.
Prayer was the conclusion
not to sit on an illusion-
but a settlement
for all the dirty hands,
practicing in the darkness
warped delusions targeting its prey.
If you haven’t guessed it,
the walls held all the secrets.
The blood purified
what had been broken,
yet and still love conquered all.
Constantly reflecting in the mirror -
hurt and pain
seemingly sealed,
Ancestral locks of gain
never meant to refrain.
In the end
the blood of Jesus settled the score
uniting hearts and minds
removing the blind spot evermore
protecting the lineage of those to come,
setting free the whispers
of the past and burying
the analogies that the Pharisees,
Sadducees, and Scribes once knew -
but never chewed upon.
About the Creator
Jacqueline Elaine Hudson
She is a natural-born scribe penning from her cup. Healing has expunged her sorrows, trampled over her woes & yields straightening (like a hot comb) to the crooked places. Every pen she crafts is protected Ⓒ Apostle Jacqueline Hudson.
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More stories from Jacqueline Elaine Hudson and writers in Poets and other communities.
There's A Hole in My Bucket
It’s a well-known fact that Liza Dufresne was always the brains in the family. She was the one who always came up with the brilliant schemes the Dufresne kids carried out when they were younger. Like when they tricked Mrs. Claybourn into paying for a trip to Disney World. Liza convinced her that their parents had been kidnapped and were being held for ransom for the total price of three tickets. In reality, they were away on a weekend getaway for their anniversary. When they returned, Liza told the Claybourns that they did not like to talk about the ordeal. Their parents never found out how they got the money. Mrs. Claybourn never found out that the Dufresne parents were never really in any danger.
By David E. Perry7 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
This is rad. There’s a definite sense of rhythm and motion here, like dashes on the road, flitting by. Great pacing. The way you’ve connected the legacy of the past to the feeling of motion/ moving forward is really compelling. My favorite part is the lines around the mirror. I don’t know if it was intentional but I almost feel like it must have been, because it’s too good to be an accident: the double meaning of “reflecting in the mirror- hurt and pain”. On the one hand, I’m reading this as one’s personal reflection, your own face in the mirror. Along with the ancestral line this shows that we carry the legacy not only of where we came from but also who we came from in our literal reflections. Our faces, in the present, are living proof of the past, the pains that dwell there, and a testament to whatever resilience carried us forth. But there’s also, with the lines about the blind spot, a sense that the mirror is literally your rearview while you’re driving, and that as you drive forward the stuff behind you remains behind you. Definitely reminds me of the lyrics and tone of “Staring at the world through my rear view” by Tupac. His poetry there takes a different personal focus, but that central theme of looking back on the past while rolling forward, I just find that really compelling. And one final thought that the imagery of mirrors and reflections always conjures up for me: there was an Italian woman named Clare of Assisi who lead a medieval religious order/ convent, and some of her letters she talks about how Christian’s shouldn’t just follow Christ they should strive to mirror Christ. I’m not especially religious these days. Agnostic. but I still like that notion, as kind of an answer to the biblical concept that humans were made in the image of God, so too can humans deliberately behave in a way that mirrors or emulates the divine. Not in terms of godly “power” but in terms of sacrifice and love. So looking in the mirror can also give you a glimpse of what God might be like, and if you live/ love a certain way you can reflect that light all the brighter. Anyway, great poem. Sorry for the lengthy reply, your writing cracked open a flood of thoughts for me.