The Emotional Child

When you still wore stardust,

before you discovered this plane

When the galaxies danced at your whim or will

still then, nothing remained the same.

You wept when a planet was born or died

Your diamond tears descended as rain

Your divinity moving in and out the tides

Why then, my beloved, do you think these gifts arcane?

Now is the experience, like any other ride,

only now the power is that of indigenous hurricanes.

The Curtained Room

In a room with one window,

colorful curtains against the dim

holiness was born anew

as a breathy release prayed again

suspended between tender bruises,

indulgent heart, and reflections mirrored

in cultured ceremony, societal grieving,

a confusion of emotional hymns

sung toneless to the dim, enraptured heart

refused warmth or comfort, only respite

in a room with one window.

Eostre

On Easter, as a child,

I’d get strapped into conformity

To behave better than any other day

Because Jesus woke up from the dead

To make sure i presented pristine in white

Married to seasonal forgiveness

Hailing the rituals of ages old debt to the earth

Celebrating without sin; with damnation refused

Awaiting Beltane’s lustful repose to greet the blending turn

Historic Healing

The sugar cookie pink dogwood sprinkles bridal paths;

creating instant asphalt chapels.

The scent of innocence found in clover and black walnuts

admire the buttercups, grape hyacinths, and forget-me-nots

I inhale the pastel afternoon of 72 degrees, skirt weather

rising sun peeking the treetops looking for reflections

The yellow skin blanket warms the earth,

nurturing the robins, crows, and a fashionable pair of bluebirds.

In the dark margarine yellow window boxes,

purple pansies assort themselves presentably.

There are four square pillars looking like an estate;

updated but settled into a routine of security.

A squeal of young girls holding a picnic at the curbside

interacting by taking turns instead of having a leader.

They worked in tandem, familiar with their abilities.

A nap in a hammock sounds incredibly plausible, but

I return to the silence of a squeaky cat and gentle spirit

A Yard of Tennessee

The singing tree is abuzz with pollination

Beezus kneezus

They are tuned to lawn mower and cultivators of grand design

Twirtling whistles calling attractive charps.

I hear sky calling trills and thrills with a distant dog barker- carnival style

Deep fried in a crispy batter with enough calories to kill a small town faster than Walmart

Frogs are ritting and roting a love song to be begged generations long

Chattering bamboo charms cardinal directions hovering home

Guns ranged into collapsing sound; whips cracked precisely

S-s-s-s-sisserig rus-s-s-s-s-s-stling leaves and branches

Seabird seabird seabird bird bird trill

Barn Owl haunts the blue jays battle while carpenter beezus kneezus

Mourning dove calling sadly the droning plane cruising altitude

Rejoice!!

Leave your week behind
Come hold your love in faith
Ease your troubled mind
Come bless your hands with grace
Join hearts one to another
To raise your spirits high
Open up your life
To shine your holy light
Bright shining bright bright bright

A Year of Firsts

This is a time for lasts, as we say goodbye,

but this is also a time for intensely real firsts.

A time when the reflection upon our own mortality

comes to the forefront, peeled away into puddles of grief.

The firsts that haunt the memories

are those that ask, “How can the birds be singing?

Why does the traffic keep moving?

Don’t they realize my world just stopped?”

Like a delicate flower praying in amber

First, there are the beginnings found only at the ends,

then there are the lasts that can only be found

looking in the rear view mirror

as the year of firsts steps forward

begins.

When it first comes home that there isn’t any

physical shell to go sit with,

to hold hands with,

or look into their eyes on this day or any more other days,

the comprehension of our provisional lives

settles like “dust-we-meant-to-get-to-until-things-changed.”

The sound of their breathing or their laughter

has begun to fade and yet, they show up

unexpectedly fully present as echos of last being.

What they don’t warn anyone about

are the May 4ths, the June 13ths, and the October 27ths.

The ordinary, every day chores laden heavily

with surprisingly unpredictable waves

The first meal alone, knowing they aren’t there.

Using the last of the coffee you bought

on your last shopping trip when you didn’t know;

While there was still hope you would shop again.

Packing the clothes they used to wear catching

a whiff of their cologne

that sparked the memory of their hugs.

The realization that along with your firsts,

you also experienced unwittingly, your lasts.

All of the things that seemed so mundane,

ordinary when they were around,

even through challenges,

suddenly become

…absent.

And although they never leave us

their love woven into our cloak of shared life,

everything seems suddenly out of sync;

off kilter; out of phase,

unraveled.

When we think of the deaths of our people

The ones we knew inside and out,

We brace ourselves for the celebrations

because we’ll go through the motions

We’ll go through the first motions of knowing

with all of our people, but one, we’ll be grieving.

Whispering ‘Bless their hearts” reverently,

We’ll be eating funeral sandwiches,

served in hushed tones after the nice service.

We’ll make motions of Christmas, Thanksgiving,

their birthday, your birthday, and the first anniversaries.

It’s the days of confetti we go to like holy sacraments

feeling gawked at and sacrificial; awkwardly naked.

But smiling politely with a discreet exit

helps to survive through the first holidays.

This is a time for new beginnings, letting go of goodbyes

but this is also a time for honoring that which has been before

A time when the reflection upon our own mortality

comes to the forefront, inspired by the love

which brought blessings and comfort throughout the years.

May peace be granted to you as it has been to My loved one