The Night I Realized the Truth

I am content.

Pleased. Satisfied. And glad.

Because I have come to learn

That my joy is nothing to be earned

And it is a treasure needless for search.




Black ‘O Black

Black ‘O Black is what they say of me.

Black ‘O Black is who they see.

Black ‘O Black is my constant reality.

Black ‘O Black is the freedom I speak,

And Black ‘O Black is who I’ll always be.

—O. D. M

Yet Praise

Why, my soul, are you downcast?

The sun still does rise,

The grass still does grow,

The wind still does flow,

Why, my soul, are you downcast?

My mind still does ache me,

My enemy still does chase me,

The lie still does break me,

Why, my soul, are you downcast,

The sun still does rise.

—O. D. M

This is My Letter to Santa

Put a spell on my dad, so he’ll come home more.

Sprinkle him with your Christmas magic,

Place his name at the top of the nice list,

Visit him first on Christmas Eve,

And when you see him in the mall,

Remind him of my wish.

Tell him, “Your son has been great this year and all he wants for Christmas is you.”

Please, Santa, put a spell on my dad, so he’ll come home more.

—O. D. M

When Hosea Met Gomer

Love me like you would love a prostitute­.

Pursuing me into the lairs of my lovers,

Patiently yet persistently coaxing me from the arms and touch of lust.

Let lust be erased from my memory, better yet from my tongue.

For when I speak it will not be of another idol—a man-made God confessed by these lungs,

But this tongue will return tender words of their own,

And I will not only utter them, they will trickle from my mouth in the form of a song.

It will be like the melody I once sung in my youth, because this is all I know how to respond.

And even though you know my taste of the idols isn’t completely gone.

You still accept these words: “your prostitute, excuse me, your bride is now home.”

—O. D. M

The Answer

What if I had the answer to your broken heart.

The possibility to mend what no other has

Shaping the blood dripping flesh into the semblance of an angel

Pulling and pressing till perfection forms.

Yet, what if is an illusion, because what I can only do is love what has already been created.

To be the eyes gazing at the irregular construction that is chipped and bruise from time,

To be the hands to hold you—not create you,

To be the one who lifts you to the light

And says,

Wow, what if…what if this beauty was never mine.

—O. D. M

Run Red River

Run red river,

To wash the screams, to cease the cries.

Oh joy! How sweet would it be…

For your waters to seep through the soil to the roots of me.

Run red river,

To cleanse the reddened eyes of a frightened girl.

Oh joy! How sweet would it be…

For the drippings of your waters to cool the inside of me.

Run red river,

To silence all I fear, to be the melody I hear.

Oh Joy! How sweet would it be…

For your rushing waters to be the orchestra playing through me.

Run Red River.

Oh, sweet, red river run.

— O. D. M