stepping stones on pencil rose petals (poem)

words on a screen like
strokes across a page
each a gentle rocking
back and forth,
slightly
unbroken
but for snip-its of blank empty moments
between charcoal black, pitted page white, and graphite gray

a different dance of the same passion, safely
typing torrents of hate
hope
hallowed grounds of hurtful safety
the black and white forest
that carries no tone

when the small slate circle
of the eyes of the others
can meet
face to face
is there not
more care taken
with words
chosen?
accusations
slung?

the owl's out stretched wings
envelope
something
that cannot be defined
while the bristle backed bear
searches
for something
to consume

yet the owl hunts, too
a silent, swooping, midnight monster
deadly in its stealth, hunger, need

tip toe toward what sings
to you,

there are no shadows
dark enough to hide
the notes of a guitar that
sing sweetly
shaping soothing moments

of basement level solitude

While you wander lost
in search of wanderlust which
winds you inward
twisting
convening
converging
like mountains and rivers
reach toward each other
a babble brook sound
amplified and twisting itself
softly
deeply
into your own soul
but, softly...to no more than
the whisper
of a night whispered into
so softly, a falling rain
dancing delicately
on almost a foot of snow

like toes
around a cotton ball
curl your rose petals into themselves,
and hold it all...
hold
what is there, imperfect and needy though it may be...
Small arms, chubby cheeks
reliance
dependence
love

Love

and take small steps
on every scape...land, paper, computer screen...
 take them
a dance upon a distant shore
unknown
unseen
a vastly different shore
than any
that has ever washed you
with its salty, imperfect waters
before

poetry inspired in church and my whispering winds class

I.
Lean into hope
and let it lift you
I do not
know how
to do that

or

That is all
I know
how to do

And in the leaning
the lifting
not everyone around you
moves
some things stay
static

and the screams of fear
are stolen, so swift,
from my trembling lips
it is as if
they never existed

or

they are all
that ever has.


II.
There is love in this world
for a while
and a while
dwindles
in its entirety to partial
places
full of flawed, finite
human beings
searching for the safety
of something simple

a lap
to lay your head upon

as if the resting legs
of one other
human being
can be
like a harbor enabling you
to skirt
the whipping winds
of words flung in judgement

or like the blessed blanket
you cower beneath
to hide from magical
imagined monsters

like the path your soul
dances upon when
a tune lifts it lightly

It's like these things
because it is
these things
All of them and more

for a while

At some point
where ever the reason originates
those knees must
unbend and
in standing
steal your soft safe place
becoming a momentary
moving reminder
that the love
in this world is perfect
in its imperfect
partiality.



III.
Wisdom Within our Own Hollow Heart

Moments
were stolen
from you heart

As bits of bread are torn
to use as a tool
to sweep the plate clean

Sips
of your soul drained
as empty as the last glass of wine

Stolen torn drained ignored

Yet welcome
as someone known deeply
by and into
your own hollowed heart

The heart you once wrote
love notes to,
enough to fill a bookshelf

And peeling your own image
back
with sorrow and forgiveness
gratitude and peace
are the steps that greet you here
at this new place, your own
front door.

So that
in broken pieces
the mirror comes together
once again enabling you to face
a visage
more perfect in its shattered parts
than you ever
would have
imagined.