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.
hearing
Nothing really.
Empty places are not alone.
They are not so quiet either-
taunting and haunting thoughts
in exploding fragments full of grace
reforming time,
taking nothing really into the soul
and finding there a divine space.
Reconciliation
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
1st position
Cicadas fading hum meets the cool morning breeze
with a call and response litany among the usual flight of birds
except geese in formation against the wind directly pointed
while the lutheran’s sanctioned bell begs their ordered migration.
It is Sunday.
It is the day the trees dance in 1st position to know Sabbath’s touch.
photography via Stephenltyler.
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
Captured
I am so captured in telling of tales, foreign reflections reframing reveal
fears clouding my sun blocking my view
mind wondering, narrating a hurt or failed feud.
The sound of my steps meter the beat, linked to the pace of breath and repeat
Then fear unto death strikes from the south
eyes widened with terror, scales fallen off.
Captured no more, my heart in a beat
gasps with a cry and swallows a scream
free to regret, confess and relive
knowing the now was
lost once again.
Photography courtesy of Peter Corr
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…
