always…there is another person on the end of your tendrils
always…there is another whose story trumps your own
always…what you think everyone would get if they only understood
is what they want you to understand and get from them
always…the choices we make because we feel we must
are their own style of choice!
always…the lives around you mirror you in all need and desire
always…your children are who you were once
always…your parents once were just as you
always…do unto others as you would have them do unto you
always…there is another person on the end of your tendrils
in the silent moments,
when nothing speaks
(you did know that, didn’t you?
Have you not heard its voice?)
and to stopper its relentless words
my mind goes elsewhere,
and I wander back thru pages of the days
and chapters of the years
and past volumes of the decades
until I stop at last
in children’s books well thumbed
and read nearly to death.
it is there I see you still,
and in your running laughter
released and giggly grasping
our guts in gales of mirth.
i see your eyes unguarded,
your innocence intact,
your trust still whole, unshattered
unsullied by grief’s touch.
I see your wispy curls, I see your toothless grin,
I hear your nonsense singing always
and you there, secrets within and harbored deep and lonely
I see you there within.
you cannot know how I feel, here
now…because the books won’t open
into your life unlived and yet to be discovered.
Well…you could believe and listen
when I reach out wholehearted
and full of love to give
and wanting to redeem all
that depression ruined
and self-loathing polluted.
lovelies I was always there
though trapped so deep inside!
I was shipwrecked just as you
when you felt choked by your hometown
well I was dying in my body
smothered in its horror.
The present yous swim into view
and lay yourselves upon
the little yous there innocent,
those brand new perfect yous
and I see at the same time
the spectrum of your beings
in scintillating sharpness
so smudged by separation
and blurred by longing tears.
I see your cold and austere looks
I hear your voice demanding
your questions stark, commanding
“what does your flaw have to do with me? What is your point?
So you suffered, big deal! Worse, you broke me mangled, mutilated
folded spindled, permeated all the air I ever breathed
with your dysphoric world!
“I was not given a choice! If I was, it would not be you!
so just step back, just go away and fade into the pages back
before our volume started, we are now ever parted”.
But as I said…they cannot read into their future
those pages remain stuck together, gummy in a messy wad
of yet to be determined, yet to there be written
in the blood of choices made and in the ink of voices raised
to speak of deeper things…or not.
regardless, I can still take out those books
and thumb the well worn pages
and read the much loved stories
of long lost wholesome glories.
and I will always love my babies there so cherished
and kissed and ever treasured, ever, ever treasured
always ever treasured.
the dreamer longing,
the lonely unrequited.
the dreamy girl alone
and aching on the staircase,
betwixt two places, seated
within the place of passage
but still while all around me
others arrive to home…
or yearning doggie loving,
transparent in the moment
unnoticed in the wistful hurt
and past trauma returning
just hungry for a gentle pat,
or give a doggie comfort
and drink in human pain.
in this morning still, in the murmur of the quiet
my tender heart is open and from it graceful tendrils
of gratitude entwine with the quiet stillness.
Would that then be a quietude?
Quietude: a moment grateful (a grateful moment)
dawn is hushed and waiting still
crouched beneath the misty shrouded hills
that shelter things not yet awake,
birds, heads tucked awing
deer swaddled in wild grasses tall
ducks, there so still on the silent lake
as it always was, and as it is, wondrous still
in my time and place of debt and gratitude.
I was born beneath these burdens heavy
(taxes ripped and torn from my life blood)
and I owe debts that were inherited
a thousand times bequeathed beneath these tear-stained skies
I pay my debts in tears and grieving cries
but something else, surprising, unexpected
has crept into this life of streaming days and hovering nights
a bird awakes and sings
a hart rises to eat
a squawking duck upon a laughing lake
a cedar incense scent upon the night breeze gentle
that stirs the sleepy dawn and wakes the dead.
quietude: the grateful giving of my thanks
that I am made a treasure hard to find,
tough to discover and hidden in a box of yellow pine
inside a cup of silver filigreed
with Mercy’s Motto and with Grace’s Creed.
and I at last grow thankful for myself
a life of so much more than dusty shelf
and windows shuttered, four walls grim and dull
and debt that never rests, is never full
a tender thought arising there within me
a sacrifice unnoticed but rejoiced in
a song sung graceful, skillful hidden,
a gentle touch so faithful and committed
to stir the Day awaking and Undying
in the never ending Light of that Becoming.
Time running in streaming ribbons behind laughing children
twisting in a holiday blur of color, movement flowing
Time swimming sinister, sleek in the silent night
hungry to devour the Child there before it quiet
and in that cattle trough.
Snuffling with snout insistent, inhaling fragrances
of common birth and bearing…and something else
coming…the smell of death overlaid in incense
but underneath…the smell of…what?
The smell of other.
And then those guileless eyes flash open,
dark and endless but not with perpetuity
no! Endless in the Moment never ceasing!
Endless in a present never moving but never still either,
And time found itself hooked and billeted and beached.
Time is just a boat, no…a moat…a mote in eternity’s eye
Time is but a note in Wonder’s Symphony!
And with the Baby’s birth inside of Time
Eternal bells of joy ring out the chime
Olly Olly Oxen FREE!
The season of eternity is nigh,
when God gives Their response to our hurt cry
and renders youth and age trite matters moot
and blows away the ashes and the soot
revealing hearts like stars still shine beneath.
Kneel where you are, for that is where it is,
that lowly manger unseen by the great
and in that manger, there inside of you
your face upturned and wet with Heaven’s dew
the Christ Child comes to make all things brand new.