The heart grows tender only in the dark places of pain and loss
where seeds of anger die too slowly
but then reach
for the hope of rebirth
for the delicate touch of light
for a healing shower of grace and love
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
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.
Everyday
Every day breathes hope from forgotten dreams
taking for granted expected miracles of awareness.
But out the door then,
without coat or cover
on to a human paced journey of doing and stuff-
an accustomed living with exposed intentions
and brokenness, storms and tantrums,
only then to circle back where a closed door shields the heart
in prayerful submission to the chill of that day’s failed ending.
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.
Edge
The beauty of a sunset along the Appalachian gaps
reminds me that I wish no one ill
Yet then its shining point annoys
I squint
and the glare strains my soul
I shout
“go hide in the valley and die out”
no patience
no presence
and in that breath
I have struck an edge
from life to death
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.
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
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