Bearers of power live from the surface
skin deep
the only measure of dominance.
Too many die in the shadow
of their sun spared wrappings
Of hate by exclusion
Of what matters in black.
Enchanted
A story lives in the shape of things
words in the walls
left unspoken or unheard.
A memory in the feel of the air
blowing through time
trapped in a trinket or touch.
A heart holds tight with a tear or a smile
enchanted
in the wisps and wonder
of lover speak.
New Mexico 8/2014
Brew
- Photo by Chamod Kushan on Pexels.com
Morning tea preferred
warm, gentle
Coffee every morning
powered
by enthusiasm to blend a version
of his perfection.
Promise year: 41
To have and to hold “will not last long”
-too messy too expectant they said
yet 41 promise years later,
we stand each whole and yet one.
Never really over,
the gospel of love embraced.
The time together traced in the lives of too many
but especially three
with days years or moments left to bloom.
Origins
Only so many heartbeats said a man-
trusting scarcity somehow to direct a life.
But daughters
hold treasured seeds of grandma’s eyes and DNA
inside their wombs not yet full
and they dance.
Winning
Dreams and hopes light the path for tomorrow,
not rushing what can be done to win every now.
Time is never managed
but lived in random synchrony within a moment’s notice.
Let Light
and Breath
and Love
find my soul ready.
photography thanks to Charis Psallo @wordpress
Open Books
Can you read without listening to the words?
Can you see without hearing thoughts?
Ignorance protects.
Love opens.
Time to bow to the listening side of our hearts.
Image thanks to gacochran@wordpress
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.
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
Image courtesy of “Franziska/ Whataboutawaterbottle”
Hug
The mountains hug forgotten ones
Souls known in gestures centuries old.
Wonderfully wild and high enough
where clouds can wet their tears and soften edges
All in breathless upward climb in rhythm find
a peaceful soul
and a memory, union sweet.
Then falling down in gasps of fear darker turns and twists
My footing gone
the mountain moves
in outward reach
– embrace.
