The memory soaked moment
unwanted
stains
glass windows of prayer
brokeness
The Politic of Fog
more than unknowing
more than confusion
more than isolation
It is the truth that is lost with the blow hearted makers of heaviness
thick with injustice meant to allow time to escape the light of day
photography thanks to Paul Militaru
For The Record
She did not match the data presented
in hospital speak to a crowd of learners.
It was not so much a lie
as it was a revealing – a tale.
The well and the ill are stories
told from all sides of a hospital bed
in space and time
not captured in code and computer screens.
So let the record so reflect
the hurt and the heart of
hands reaching
and healing
beyond the numbering of days.
Photography thanks to Nick Van Zanten
Nursing a Wound
Without respect to will
the heart still beats and chest breaths life.
Not true when with pain
I choose
to listen or not, to care too much-
hold so tight the hurt
the inner lines are lost
and I am not me but you.
Mourning rounds
From the opposite side, I watched the murder
some might say suicide.
Racing never an attempt to waver.
Morning speed a must.
Indecisive the victim scrambled left -right
then frozen in fear –crushed by the weight
a heart stopped.
A morning death always makes me cry.
Photo courtesy of blumworks@wordpress
Gasp
the wounding is the same
self inflicted in moments perceived through lenses lost in time
birthing shame
eternal scenes rehearsed to protect a shattered soul from love scorned
beholding fear
so taught by mothers and mother’s mothers until each is carried
beyond this
gasping
Image courtesy of “Franziska/ Whataboutawaterbottle”
deranged
Time leaked
spaces feared and forgotten
memories wreaked
with daily breath once harboring hope and love.
Picture via “amdally” wordpress.com
