• Carol Everett Adams

Take This Down

I wrote this recently after a night out and a particular conversation, the details of which I don't wish to share.


But I will say here we are in the Year of our Lord 2022 and otherwise intelligent people are still so deeply and sadly misled as to believe that a Supreme Deity, the Universal Source, Creation, God, or whatever name is meaningful to you, has any sort of opinion about who humans love, and, even worse, feel compelled to tell other humans who they should and should not love, and judge them for their love, and restrict them from loving. We have got to get past this nonsense, my fellow humans.


If you practice the act of prayer (and, let's face it, in direct contradiction to a Source of love, there's a correlation between people who pray a certain way and people who love-judge) then I urge you, I beg you, to prayerfully consider where these messages came from, who started them, who perpetuates them, and what those people gain from such stories. Release yourself from their power, and open your hearts and minds to the notion that love is love and has no boundaries.


This poem is only published here.


open wooden-framed window overlooking green trees in the mist
Photo from Unsplash by Hannah Tims

Take This Down


Windows open, the kind that go

down to the floor so you can step over

the lip, little boundary between inside and outside.


But you sit still for safety,

hide in the corner under a lamp,

pretend a book is your view, your everything.


False teachers ask, “Who among us

is secret, sinning when we aren’t looking after you?”

Head down, you know better.


But keep reading between the lies of ‘love the sinner

and hate the sin’. This sentence dissolves

once you realize sin is a staged frame


upon which powerful men built a house.

And this is not true church. Church is outside this room.

The starry night is the dome


and the trees worship her.

We will help you. Night and day are soft,

the pines something we brush, the sky smooth


and the water silk. Flowers are stained glass

and the animals are singing for you, singing you home.

The roof crumbles behind you. There are those of us


out here lighting a path, shielding you.

We stand for you, with you, and we call them out

for the house they built with lies,


the fake church men, who also wish to leave.

First man, every man. Love is not a gender.

Your dress is spinning into wings.

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