Exhaled breath to the end Emptied pulsing heart confused by hate and race not white under the weight of grace-less men this Black life matters "Mama" please rest in peace
Rain heavy leaves
surviving the fall
spine fractured and severed high,
alive only in memory of a collective grace.
With dreams of new life budding
in leaf soaked earth,
roots nurture all of life
birthing a new haven.
The personal threat of death looms heavy.
The air we breathe seems thick with risk.
As a physician, I live quite cautiously – very aware of biology and consequence.
At the same time I live blindly in service to a call.
So regarding my death,
I am aware of treasured moments and hope
yet also the horror of being very alone in fear…
today that will be enough.
seemingly above it all
radiates like heat
into the burden of the soul
I chose the yellowed white pearls your hands crafted,
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,
burning off the haze of dawn.
In the cycle of death
beyond time and space
an essence of forever being
and my soul remembers why I am.
Photography thanks to Expose Nature @WordPress
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
beyond the numbering of days.
Photography thanks to Nick Van Zanten
The beauty of a sunset along the Appalachian gaps
reminds me that I wish no one ill
Yet then its shining point annoys
and the glare strains my soul
“go hide in the valley and die out”
and in that breath
I have struck an edge
from life to death
From the opposite side, I watched the murder
some might say suicide.
Racing never an attempt to waver.
Morning speed a must.
Indecisive the victim scrambled left -right
then frozen in fear –crushed by the weight
a heart stopped.
A morning death always makes me cry.
Photo courtesy of blumworks@wordpress
the wounding is the same
self inflicted in moments perceived through lenses lost in time
eternal scenes rehearsed to protect a shattered soul from love scorned
so taught by mothers and mother’s mothers until each is carried