someone said the test of love
is making hard decisions–
choosing, for another’s sake,
the necessary actions;
taking the proper path
though strewn with rocks,
watered with tears, and
fraught with pain.
for love chooses what is best
chooses what must be
shouldered, borne, and done,
in spite of what might be wanted,
regardless of what had been hoped.
from the poem Hard (i) by Joy Camburn in response to this post.
dissociative phrases slip in and out
foggy dew, fog lifted, foghorn, leghorn. ;)
creative buzz,
cackling energy welling
glad to be free.
free of the fog. there it is again,
chase the pent up rush.
ideas in a fuss,
hear the thrush! now focus. crisp.
clear, feel the clarity, contrasty,
images, razor sharp, like a knife.
now soft, fluid like water.
oh bother. chase the convolution
harry it like a cat and his mouse
or a bird and his prey
wait. where was i again?
– 12/3/09 – 1
a smile played on her face
aching, and lovely
a dusky room and warm
glowing red from tungsten
my desire is eager,
cloying, lingering
and when i wake, it hurts
i felt the swift and sudden drop
so eager, engaged, and desiring
but also the slow and sober thought
that she matters more to me than self
-4/7/08
The scent of spring was on the air this morning
Breathing deep a sigh after the rain
White blossoms on the dogwood are breaking
And the indigo tinge of magnolias
Signal the last breath winter
the rain fell softly
while the choir sang of snowflakes
and the mournful music washed
over his lonely soul
my dreams linger lightly on the wispy wimple
of the silver softness of my pillow
as i remember brightly the fine and fickle
flurry of the early evening hours
i will greet the morning, and the blushing brightness
of the subtle sunlight as it creeps across the floor
while i linger in the longing of the prior evening
thinking of the time i spent with her
She is a song.
not the weaker,
but more fragile,
softer, sweeter
counterpoint:
to my melody
she was strong
brooking no obstacle
as a woman and a daughter
a sister, a wife, and a mother
she loved her family
giving without sparing
wise, determined, deeply caring
by breath and unshaking faith
she was my grandmother
loving and deeply proud
leaving a legacy of grace
hope born of faith and love
Softly the yellow dusk
Descended on the skyline
And golden light reflected
On the puddle after rain
Blood, fire and vapour
Signs above and below
Wonders in heaven and earth
Darkness, and a blood moon
His Spirit poured out
His servants declaring
The great and notable day
His day, the day He comes
The day we are saved
If we call upon His name
– acts 2:18-21
i am a song written in minor key
the rise and fall, the dance beside the deep
the melancholy surge, the tantalizing leap
the bright and bittersweet relation
a life of rhyme and reason
the scent of spring was on the air this morning
breathing deep a sigh after the rain
white blossoms on the dogwood are breaking
and the indigo tinge of magnolias
signal the last breath of winter
My God, my God, He cried
As He suffered alone, dying
On a cross, a broken tree
Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani
Forsaken, for love, for me
snow lies laden on the ground
salt ringing the trees
making patterns on wet roads
longing for life and evidence
seeking resurrection
three days like three months
an eternity of waiting
for a promise of hope
his voice and my name
–
adapted from I practice my spanish grammer
lilacs and daffodils,
on a grassy dell,
in the mid day sun.
on a day in spring,
when the weathers cool,
to sit and dwell,
on the nearness of you.
she teases me
soft breath, moist,
like a kiss on your cheek
and the wind blows,
so sweet in the morning
and she says she’s sorry
for taking so long
that she’ll be back soon
and i believe her
because i’m smitten
who are You Lord,
to pursue me with Your love?
who made the wind and the rain?
who made the mountains dance
and the very earth tremble.
who are You Lord,
to invest Yourself in me?
I who merit naught but judgment?
I who have spurned the sweetest gifts
of your deep and merciful heart.
Give me the broken, those in pain.
The wise, made wise by suffering.
Who can know compassion,
Who can know Love,
Who hasn’t hurt, felt anguish,
Known sorrow, and known loss?
Precious is the fellowship of suffering
Humble are those who are broken
And Sweet is the consolation of His Love.
my little girl,
i loved you so much.
i had such hopes,
sweet dreams of holding you,
playing with you,
watching you grow.
i felt you grow inside.
God had taken part of me,
and fashioned something precious,
something lovely,
exquisitely beautiful,
embodied of hope and love
but i lost you.
you were my little girl,
not to hold, never to see
unable to watch you stretch
your arms for the first time,
never to see you experience
this wide wide world.
you were taken too early,
a life, my life,
so short, so tenuous.
my stolen child,
my heart broke for loss.
when you were taken,
part of me was taken too.
–
This poem was written for my Aunt Barbara, who lost her first little girl (Tonyia) two days after she was born.