Comfort

Where once there was a sense of peace

wrapped in your arms

quiet of the world

enamored with your kiss

your touch

your skin against my lingering fingers

now there is only a comfort

A visceral sense of being who

I have longed to be since before you existed

My Star

Oh, how I loved him.

I wrote poems of my love for him.

I made art in testament to my devotion.

I honored him to the best of my ability

Until I just couldn’t do it any longer.

Blank looks

Or no response

Or “It’s good. I like it.”

No matter what I did.

Never more.

At times, I would yell or scream

Desperate for ANY reaction.

Stonewalled.

But, oh, how I loved him.

I believed that if I loved him

(As he couldn’t through mine)

Through his obvious depression

Eventually, the man I loved so dearly,

Would return.

If…

I just loved him for a little longer,

A little harder, a little bit stronger,

The man who gave me the stars

(He really did name a star for me),

I would experience the intimate devotion

That I adored when he loved me back.

I loved him with everything I knew

And, for him, it was not enough.

I was too much for him.

I was not enough for him.

I was not worth the effort.

I was too much effort.

But, after I had come from the darkest place I’d ever been,

Love from him was blatantly and obviously absent.

While I had his love near my heart,

I loved him with all my being.

I can forgive myself for believing

In the love I KNOW we shared.

Oh, how deeply I loved him.

Chores

Chores are individual securities.
Reassurance that things will continue.
A reality that has deep roots
in muscle memory handed down
manifesting in an intimate bonding
A celebration as I breathe life
into the rituals that begin
again
Moving the earth to fold back on herself.
I am witness to countless mothers,
ancient men, toddlers, teens, humans
as they use their muscle memories
filtered through respective traumas,
erupting learning epiphanies
resurrected
as I sweep, wash, fold, bend, dust,
stash away tomorrows witnesses
of todays contribution of
folding the earth back on her holy self

Terms of Bereavement

Originally posted 4-21-15

That side of my bed is cold as death.

It fills me with such emptiness.

The lingering scent of absence

haunting the corners as if

they had a right to be there anymore.

I stare at the dreams we once

shared together

as they drift like chipped paint

on a breathless breeze from my ceiling.

I lose the fragmented pieces

as they get swept up each Monday

on chore day.

I recognize the longing for the echoed laughter,

the heat of your kiss,

the flesh of our creation sweating drops of love

onto my flesh on a Sunday afternoon.

I remember that night I stayed up

soaking your t-shirt with rejection

that you soothed with caresses of forgiveness.

I roll away from death

even as I reach my hand to grasp the pillow

that no longer smells like you

even though I’ve not changed the fabric case.

I’d hoped that it would imprison the thoughts

that made “we” an

unbreakable, indivisible, apocalyptic force

to be reckoned with in our unity.

I pull the blanket your mother made for you

(on our fourth Christmas wed)

over my head

tasting the salt of my regret

that I didn’t know that was the last.

That side of my bed is coffin cold.

It fills me with such emptiness.

Processing

Chapter One

Yesterday was Christmas.

Chapter Two

I am constantly astounded by how my perceptions become altered by the actual life events that take place. I envisioned my Christmas holiday to be spent doing a set number of things in a particular order. I had set my day up all ready and planned. And then life happened.

My friends of a long time messaged me that they wanted to visit. I hesitated. I wanted my day to go my way. She said they wouldn’t stay long. I acquiesced against my heavy heart.

Old friends, inappropriate for the day, (I judged)

arrived full of merriment and joy.

Boisterous stories with fucking punchlines

Laughter spilling from them like beer

free-flowing,

I’m grieving. Inappropriate.

I feel like I’m the one who is inappropriate.

I wandered through their words, but I can’t

connect

I refocus, finding deep concerns of their own

Ones they came to share as their gift.

Just them being everything they are and I,

I sat in judgement because of my own sorrows.

How can I hold space when there is too much

detachment?

Chapter Three

As you may know, dear ones, I am no longer a chicken mom and I’ve taken it pretty hard. A role I treasured in my heart has been taken away by time and the realization that no matter how much you love someone or something, they will have to leave in whatever capacity.

Change is inevitable. It’s when we pretend that it isn’t, is when the expectations grow into a catastrophe of events. I thought my life would be a simple little chicken farmer in an urban setting. I planned on my husband and I would build it together. That vision got disrupted when I moved back down here and he and I chose individual happiness instead of mutual dissatisfaction.

Chapter Four

By passing my thoughts of yesterday

through the filter of sleepy wisdom

I process.

I’m grateful for my fucking people

just as much as I am for my church people

(Some of which are in both categories)

That they arrived enough

to disturb my lamentations

My sorrow of a vision lost to time

My sorrow of a chosen different path

My sorrow of little friends I knew

My grief of the loss of my vision of family

I’m weeping. And lonely for that path I once walked.

Roots Dig Down

My roots dig down to the depths of my grief.

I have blood in the soil here now.

I have committed my earthen peace

I have swallowed oceans of sorrow until I drown

But that first fresh breath of holy air

that first hint of growing comfort

The absolute trust in knowing living love

Is beyond priceless to my clandestine spirit

I welcome the shift from despair to hope

I am open to the changes in my life

Digging Cores

Life is a mighty reminder set like a tiny alarm

that goes off without warning

It’s digging down into the core elements of your humanity;

like excavating a deep conversation

with just the right person

at just the right time.

It’s remembering that your very existence,

exactly as you are,

is your contribution

your glory is in honoring

that which you were created to be

Every depth of truth discovered

is closer to your personal divinity.

Reflective silence

As I sit in reflective silence,

My refrigerator hums to life

I notice when it stops

silence once again.

I attempt to release all anxiety

(to give it to the Universe)

I’m resentful of my own inadequacies.

I relax into my “Captain’s Chair”

I focus on my breathing

In

hold

exhale

hold

I am soothing my inner child

the one that got frightened

angry, furious

I let go of anger.

I can’t hold it to my chest as I once did

suckling it like an infant

Loving the bitterness of my tears

I was encouraged to lie

to hide with deceitful heart.

I sure do want to, but who would I be then?

I know my spirit holds a different truth

a deeper meaning of who I want to be

while sitting in reflective silence

Soul Sisters

Grab my magical hands as we gather

as we dance in spirals of laughter

as we greet the muddy earth with

deeply extending roots from our heels

Celebrating the turning of the wheel

Embracing the darkening moon ever blessed

The time for planting that is to manifest