Attached to this moment by a thin string pulled
by a memory my body won’t cut loose.
An uncoordinated swallow and choking breath
release head from heart.
Alone
At risk
Trust dissolved in rhythms that would otherwise heal.
The Rape
Attached to this moment by a thin string pulled
by a memory my body won’t cut loose.
An uncoordinated swallow and choking breath
released the head from my heart.
Alone
At risk
Trust dissolved in rhythms that would otherwise heal.
Rhonda
I chose the yellowed white pearls your hands crafted,
gifted art,
entwined with my memory forever.
Now on the morning drive west
the pink gold sun
rises slowly behind me.
This gift speaks your goodbye to me.
Your death was from my art undone.
I am sorry.
There is more care than orders scripted or procedures done,
more than the fatigue of so much hurt.
I chose the yellowed white pearls
entwined in memory,
awakened to a daily becoming,
not fading
burning off the haze of dawn.
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.
This place
Hearing something ahead
songs of those with voices only
nothing to touch though reaching deep
Fearing the fall
knowing nothing but the view
of love from inside out
in this place.
Mourning rounds
Before the full rising
I watched,
A witness to an accidental death.
A squirrelly fella, racing down and across
beating fast across the central lines.
Then frozen in fear –crushed
a heart stopped.
A morning death always makes me cry.
Melancholy
A death comes sometimes without the warmth of grief
–emotion detached rising to shut the door
with you alone.
A melancholy
in spaces not tidy
where light blends with dark and a journey beyond can begin
photography courtesy of Beauty of Abandonment
To know
To know the beat of waves in rhythm
stripping, striking stone to sand
gasping breath and fear together
pushed and pulled in chords of love.
On a limb
I 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.
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