Mourning rounds

From the opposite side, I watched the murder

some might say suicide.

It seemed though to be racing and there was never an attempt to waver.

Indecisive the victim scrambled left -right

then frozen in fear –crushed by the weight

a heart stopped.

A morning death always makes me cry.

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Photo courtesy of Sue (Mac’s Girl)

On a limb

autumoct-25-2016.jpgI really depend on problems.  They engage my intellect. Energy flows best in me while in the “problem solving” mode.

But it’s killing me.

I spend hours intellectually solving the emotional crisis created in make-believe power struggles to right a wrong. I tune in preferentially to the oppression of wrong thinking, ready to push back.  My eyes notice first the thing “wrong” with the picture.

I was educated to do this. My skills honed to fix the broken.

I have the mind of science, dissection as discovery.

Did I mention it’s killing me?

I use the quest for perfection as motivation to create. I think and talk and type until my voice is heard.

I yell louder –  and over power.

I think deeper – and over intellectualize.

I focus harder-  and over work.

It is killing me.

Can I just hang there?  Can I hold a view on the edge that accepts the death of needing to solve the moment?  Can I then live within the fall of mind to heart?

Can I live in the pain of brokenness, of autumn’s peace and beauty and know season’s change is not my call to arms?

Can I just die a bit in the strain of change without the torture of failure?

 

Image courtesy of Brenda-meditative journey with saldage.

 

 

Daughters Sad Goodbye

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His poverty of love betrayed every effort

and he settled for survival-

afraid even of comfort

a man alone in a mind framed by fear.

His death came as could be expected-

outside, nature fallen.

Along his years-

he was loved without knowing how to love, 

embraced not knowing how to hold, 

home not knowing how to father.

Yet in this moment, in this breath

he is today beloved.

 

photography courtesy of Sarah Vaughn

Reconciliation

regret

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