Thursday, March 31, 2016

slightly shared sorrows

What is broken

Is still broken

It will always be broken

It’s where the light comes in

It’s where the love flows

And today

I felt each crack

Without pounding hot knock-you-over tears

They oozed

Both in and out

Spinning green life tendrils

Into the world, a growing thing

To shade the sun searing sorrow

Of someone I’ve never met

And curling into my own dark crevices

Scratching over scarring spots

Rough rubbing the bits of remaining scabs

And my tears were for her tears

8 years old, so quiet, calm

Eyes like spring skies and hair a soft golden wheat blanket

Straight down her round, rosy cheeks

My tears were for the sudden screams

Even if they are still silent

Stabbing at her mother’s throat, eyes, skin, heart

My tears were for her little brother

Older than my youngest

Too young, still, to remember well.

But mostly, my tears were for the tears that are going to come

Knowing another woman will bend to her hands and knees

Clawing at the walls

Screeching louder than sound

Unable to stand, breathe, think

Head a pounding playground for the throws

Of sorrow

Life dreams and hopes banging against all sides

Of her skull


I’d take them for her

If I could,

But the same way mine had to be worn

A thorny cloak to build up who I had to become

She must find out how

She will dress herself.

My tears

Were for myself

Because in my desire to help

I am helpless

With no gift to give but the desire to listen

To witness

To nod and offer no words and let my eyes soften

On her, attempting to be a silent willow tree witness

Standing guard

Until she is ready

To stand


Saturday, March 26, 2016

1 and 2...little ones

Do I have a choice?
I choose life.

Do I have ANY choice?
I choose love.


Do I have all the choices?
                If they agree
I choose you.



I have no gifts to give but me






Full of grief and hope and things I do not know how to label


Take my hand.

Walk with me a while

In the woods

In the city

Down the center of town

Hold my hand

So we are not alone

For the best gift

The only one that matters

Is trusting connection.

Nurturing hope

Nurturing the Hope Instead

"Grief can destroy you --or focus you … The answer to the mystery of existence is the love you shared sometimes so imperfectly, and… the loss wakes you to the deeper beauty of it, to the sanctity of it, [and] you can't get off your knees for a long time, you're driven to your knees not by the weight of the loss but by gratitude for what preceded the loss. And the ache is always there, but one day not the emptiness, because to nurture the emptiness, to take solace in it, is to disrespect the gift of life."
Dean Koontz


My right forefinger

Finds the pulse in my neck

As my arm drapes around empty space

Where you should be


“Where you should be”…

such a simple phrase

except in the ways

it isn’t…except in the ways

That it wears layers

Like a fancy haircut

That came out wrong

Or a special cake

The dog took a bite out of as it cooled


Blood pounds

Time tip toes and races forward in turns

And bare feet dance

On old concrete

Peppered with stones, pine needles, frost wedge kisses of seasons and time


I see dead people too, like the boy in the movie

Just fewer, more specific ones

And sometimes

I know they are comforted by things

In this world of full moons, stomach bugs, and hair dye that won’t go away


We have buckets and backpacks

Filled with hope, good feelings, memories, and foolish choices

They weigh us down, they lift us up, they decorate our world

They make us walk the way we do

With a skip or with a limp, depending on the day

Encourage us to lean toward things that sing to us

Dance lightly with death while praying for everlasting life


You empty one and fill the other, or vice versa

Because at times

It may be your vices

That enable you to survive the unpredictable,

Versatile, vicissitudes of life


I’m old enough to know

I should not walk barefoot

And stubborn enough to not care


I’m old enough to know

That nothing is easy

And few things have Reason

Without your consent

I’m stubborn enough to decide

When I give consent

And how

And to whom


So to you,

I hold out my hand

I may trip, I may stutter, at times

But I


I see you

And, perhaps,

Better yet

I believe my heart

holds extra eyes

Eyes that judge harder what should be allowed inside my barefoot, sacred, full moon space


Here and now, all eyes are staring

Attached to heads that are



Through violations most intimate

And words sewn into hate buttons on the cloak of my heart,

through what feels like ages slogging up mountainsides

Drenched in judgement, hurt, and shadow shards of broken dreams



than I ever would have imagined

In any tortured fever dreams of angst and ague


There is nothing here

But consent

And I hear a voice

Whisper from deep inside my heart

“Where you should be…

Is where you are.”