Friday, May 27, 2005


May 27, 2005

I know what I’ve lost.

A husband and wife
lying in bed, talking, existing,
safe together in the solace
which only comes with
true intimacy.

The quiet shade of a park bench
in the company of a friend,
when no words are needed,
because they share the breeze,
the sun, the warmth,
and that is enough.

The trust of a child
sitting beside her father
at the end of a pier,
placing her hand in his
without a second thought.

It’s only a moment,
and few ever realize
that no one has to pay
for this peace,

because chances are,
someone already has.

It’s shattering time,
rending space,
living into reality,
who we were meant to be.

I know what I’ve lost,
but it may yet be found...

in the moment
when courage finally comes
to look into your eyes

and smile.

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

Cemetery Trees

May 17, 2005

How many cemetery trees,
how many jaded pools
does it take to let her go...
that woman bent
and wondering which way
she ought to turn...

How many tears must fall
before reservoirs run dry,
and the water stills enough
to see the image of a child
running for all she’s worth
to catch up with the shadow
that keeps leaving her behind...

Here... this last tear
is all I have left.

Take it.
Then you will have all
I ever had to give.

And I can begin again.

Sunday, May 15, 2005

I Think I'll Take a Walk~ V

Valleys In Between
May 15, 2005

I sat here watching
skies turn dark,
feeling gusts of wind
careening about my door.

the air is cool and fresh,
birds are trilling in the tree
which stubbornly held its green
until the final moment last fall,
bursting into flames
even as the others
gave up life,
admitted defeat.

I remember well
the wind and rain
which drove me
to forsake my porch,
and the fantasy which withered
when I first realized
the mess within my home
holds as many images
of life and reality
as my lonely little garden plot.

Now I can’t imagine
that a moment may return
when I prefer indulgence of fear
to the God who reveals Himself to me
within creation about my door.

The sun shines bright,
despite the storm of yesterday,
reflecting hard against the page
into my young and weary eyes.
this pain bears no disguise,
yet neither does the heart of one
who heeds the counsel of the wise.

Once I heard a sage proclaim
that mountain tops
form valleys in between;
that heights would have no joy
unless my heart had seen,
could still perceive
the valleys of my need...

Cool, the breeze upon my face;
great mountains in the distance
far across the emerald valley plain...
Life there is within this pain...

I think I’ll take a walk.

So ends the series, as far as I know.

Saturday, May 14, 2005

I Think I’ll Take a Walk~ IV

May 14, 2005

Here comes the rain,

my azure sky obscured
by darker gray
than the mist which keeps you
hidden from my eyes.

My son’s pinwheel
spins furiously in winds
as merciless as reality
that blows about me,
cools the heat
and with it, the passion,
the fury with which
I pursue elusive pieces
of myself.

I’ve written before
of howling winds,
howling souls
longing for reprieve.
Yet now I hear the howl;
the sound of wind when it finds
nothing against which
fury might be broken.

What is it to you
if I sit inside my door
to avoid the buffeting?
Sometimes the wind is too angry,
the rain too cold,
the fire too furious
for one of my measure
to withstand alone.

I crack the door;
it seems the gust has relented.
Concrete soaks up the rain;
unwitting, it participates
in its own destruction.

And the angry gust bellows again;
sends papers flying,
icons plummeting.
Rain soaks the floor
and my feet...

So the only sure way
to avoid the storm
is to stay inside and drink tea.


The water’s on...

I hear it protest the manmade heat
which agitates, excites, teases
to a certain and long discussed boil.


It is no safer here
in my warm, dry haven
than it is on my storm-torn porch.
There is no safety for one
whose own dark mind-corners
are her greatest enemy.

"Harsh falls the rain,
rough blows the wind..."
thunder tests the mettle of my will,
and yet,

I think I’ll take a walk.

Wednesday, May 11, 2005


May 10, 2005

A fantasy like honey,
sugary and viscous;
it goes well with my tea.
I'd rather enjoy the sweetness it brings
than let it go and drink
the pure, bitter brew,
until I find another way
to make this cup palatable.

An apathy not unlike
the typhoon which must have
swept through my apartment,
leaving chaos in its wake...
I'd sooner lay amid the wreckage, sleeping,
than open space for thought
as I mindlessly scrub dirty dishes;
fold laundry which obscures the floor.

A despair which leaves me
barely breathing,
nursing ulcers,
praying that the sun would set,
then praying it would rise again;
for day is far too taxing;
night is but a threat
to my sanity.

A sadness which promises to drown
the simple joy I find at better moments
in life,
in love,
in poetry and all things
beautiful; all things true.
It permeates my dreams
as much and often as you.

This grief is so pervasive...
A parasite to which I cling
as desperately as it holds
to me.

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Honeysuckle I, II & IV

May 10, 2005


What is it in the
scent of honeysuckle
which takes me home,
brings me life
when spring is new;
hanging in the air
like the scent of memory?

What thoughts rush forward,
abstract and ever untouched,
at the slightest whiff of
pale yellow, peach
and ochre blooms?

There must be a sanctity
to that scent...

I imagine the spirit bears a fragrance
as haunting as the honeysuckle.
I dream that heaven's incense
is none other than that
creeping, clinging,vining,
aromatic perennial
outside my window.


Honeysuckle bears the scent
of many dreams,
many doubts,
many hours
spent longing for you,
seeking wisdom in the shades
and fragrances around my door..

Roses I've sown,
lilies I've grown,
purple plums I've brought home
and planted in the tiny plot I own.

Yet only that honeysuckle,
out back at the fence-
the one thing I didn't plan-
reminds me
every moment of its blooming
that I never planned to know,
never planned to need,
never planned to love you.


Where lies hope
when scent of honeysuckle
fails to draw me from despair?
The perfumed honey of its fragrance
has ever been a muse,
a comfort in these years
of grief.

Its nectar finds my senses dull;
its blooming meets my vision,
Its hardy, green and clinging vine
finds my heart concerned
with matters pressing hard
upon reality,
far too heavy laden
to wonder at its resilience,
thriving now after harsh winter
in a half whiskey-barrel,
roots above ground,
frozen and forgotten.

George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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