A year of days learning framed love circling hateReconciliation
The story deep in the marrow of my life betrays the simple touch of air to skin. Blood-spilt memories lay unheard, unknown but pulse with my breath and soul.
The stains of love and hate look the same in me and equally reflect the tragedy of my fears-
and I pray for reconciliation.
Photography courtesy of Ginny Hunt
Eternal Life
Maybe it’s just restlessness
in the perpetual grind of a broken spirit.
Maybe it’s fearfulness
in the gasp of life without meaning.
Maybe it’s loneliness
in want of being home where I can be we.
It’s definitely unstable
with steps not leading to a lone path.
It’s definitely noisy
with doubts out-crying a rhythm in dissonant tunes.
It’s definitely me
in a space holding it all
in a matrix of twisted becoming
in quest for a soul – everliving.
photography courtesy of Pat Cegan
Sick unto death
It’s a damning process storing every thought , worry
tucked unfolded mostly
so the space feels empty, sterile to the curious.
No presence or joy
broken soul alone
though an open door of life nurtured love.
No space for love or hate-tucked unfolded mostly,
muted and muffled by an unnatural shhhh…
Photo by Steve Garrington
Co joined
To the point of exhaustion I fall
out from light and conscience
eye to face on wakening with monsters
–the chase begins again.
Easter
Smooth and loose inviting touch
…soft puppy-belly-wrinkle-like
not morning’s bite so crisp or cool
but Friday peaceful inside-out.
The sigh, drawn breath… pain and all
embracing life most tender there.
A gaze embalms the heart to flesh,
enmeshed triune incarnate life
…soft puppy-belly-wrinkle-like
smooth and loose inviting touch.
Photography courtesy of Pat Cegan
Swell
What of the rage within that swells?
– quiet
then like a boom, you crash against the wall with words
you knock another off their holy high and you fall and drown
ego slammed against the shore
shamed to be sand-covered
soaked in humanity
-quiet.
photo courtesy of Kalani Cummins
Tangled
I have plans to free myself of life’s in-betweens.
The places where boundaries fade and color each other.
The places where messy edges scatter thoughts and wound intent.
I can’t negotiate these gaps so I plan a get away.
I throw my hands up to free my soul.
The pieces scatter far apart yet I stand alone still tangled.
Photography contributed by “Jeb, Traffic with Elves Fauns and Fairies”
What a shame….
The space of day is broken, even the breath and thought of touch.
How did I move
into such pain?
inbred the call, inside the frame
the me I think I am, it grows…. the cancer, the shame.
photography courtesy of Ériver Hijano
Because
reconciling day by day the broken and profane with the breath of any given season
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