Solemnity spoke
The night I prayed would never come
has whispered hallowed night
a reclamation of eternal earth
the kiss of chilled winds blight
The hands I loved have now succumbed
The fiery pyre take flesh from sight
a resolution to embrace rebirth
your angelic spirit take flight
I hope he never knows the pain he’s gifted me.
I pray that his life turns out better than any of my prayers could be.
My fervent wish from my bended knee
Is that his eyes be opened enough for him to recognize and see.
I hope he never understands an abused and neglected heart
I pray that his life is filled with every color of every art.
My fervent wish although we’re apart
Is that his grays fill in with rainbow light and from darkness he depart.
There is no tree bedecked with lights
to push away the coldest nights
There is no ornament in your name to hang
There are no bells, their music to clang
There will be no feast to honor the sun
There will be no hours of festive fun
There will be dust and ashes upon my hearth
With saddened heart absent, a disguise worn of mirth
As the tears refrain down memory lane
with whispers of the joy that remains
etched on the holiday with stains of your haint
re-purposing, recycling you into glorious saint.
I’ll stare out the window to witness the world sing
As I dread your fair haunting that this season brings.
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I take a deep breath and realize that I’ve exhaled the negative people from my life by persistently being positive. I got accused of being draining, of taking too much time, of making them feel not good enough, of always being angry at them. Well here’s some thoughts for you, “sister:”
Draining is spending 6 hours listening to you lather rinse repeat 10 years worth of things you won’t change. Draining is trying again and again to show you the beauty that everyone else can see but yourself. Draining is lifting you up so you don’t drown in your self pity for 10 minutes. Draining is when we’ve beaten the dead horse to dusty bones that blow around like the floaties in a snow globe.
Taking too much time? To make sure you’re comfortable when you’re hurting, to make sure your needs are met, to come rescue you from another meltdown, to come meet you where you are/pick you up/believe you with tissues in hand, to listen to your troubles and offer solutions only to have every single one shot down because you really don’t want to change, you just want to complain?
If I “make” you feel like you’re not good enough, perhaps you need a new prescription for your shit colored glasses. It’s you who doesn’t think you’re good enough, not me. You repeatedly say that you’re not worth much, that you’re not important, that nobody loves you but like I’ve been saying for years and thankfully don’t have to any more, YOU ARE WORTHY! YOU ARE AS IMPORTANT AS YOU BELIEVE YOURSELF TO BE! YOU ARE LOVED BUT DON’T BELIEVE IT!
It’s not anger you’re feeling from me. It’s frustration that I’m exhibiting. Frustration that in the entire time I’ve known you, loved you, cherished you, cried with you, hugged you, laughed with you, shared with you, struggled with you, battled at your side, you called me a liar. You told me that I was wrong for believing in you. You made it very clear that everything I saw was nothing but shadows, slight of hand, and flash paper designed to distract me from your ugly interior that reeks of self-pity and self degradation. That every word I ever spoke encouraging you may as well have been a flaming bag of dog shit left on your porch.
Frustration from trying so hard to paint your gray with the colors I see and as fast as I could whip out my palette and liner brush you already had the roller of gray loaded and ready. Like gunslingers we’d sit facing each other with coffee cups loaded to full and the battle for your beauty would begin. I’d lose again and again, but I didn’t give up until you finally did. You surrendered to the gray and I had no choice but to walk away. I couldn’t take it, not for one more day.
If you’re going to point a finger accusing someone of despising you and taking away from your life, again, go into your bathroom and look in that reflective thing over the sink for a long time. That person standing there is why you can’t see yourself clearly. She is the one hiding your beauty. She is the one not believing in you. She is the one stopping you from being everything you’ve ever dreamed. Now, walk out of that room and until you can look her in the eye and say fuck you, my life my rules my way, don’t look back. Don’t ever look back.
I used to know a baby that shined a holy halo from the crown of his head.
When anger or hurt would come near him he’d shiver and cower in his bed.
The rawness of the world took away his glow, even then as an infant small,
He knew that everything he’d do would not be enough to save them all.
I once knew a boy that shined a dimming halo from the crown of his head
He used anger or hurt that came near him as his tools against the dread
The blackness in the world stole away his glow, even then as a boy not tall,
He knew that anything he’d do wouldn’t be enough to save his own downfall.
I once knew a man that shined a flourishing coin between his fingers misled
When aggressive words would punish him, he’d just smile with his words unsaid.
The evils of the world had shown him what to know, but his spirit heard the call
He knew that everything he owned was becoming holy, his bed his own prayer shawl.
I used to know a man that shined a holy halo from the crown upon his head.
No anger, hurt, or hypocrisy could touch him as he’d stand tall among the dead.
The disregard of the material plane was now everything, he’d shed
The rawness of the world returned his spirit glow, even as he’s enthralled
He knew that his place as a “Miracle Man” was found at the Wailing Wall.
Solemnity spoke
I mailed a package off to the Spirits,
after staring at death with mournful eyes.
Gravely I dug into the hard earth
Return to Sender stamped in neat letters
on the cardboard coffin holding,
protectively, its morbid contents.
I checked to see if perhaps,
maybe,
I was mistaken.
Suppose that the heart still beat,
the breath still attended life,
the soft mewls of a hungry stomach.
I wasn’t wrong.
I wasn’t anything but lost
in the harsh tears following death’s
cool touch.
Dirt reset to conceal my pain,
I wondered how much postage
it would take to have the tiny package
returned to life once again.
Every one of my canvases and paints but not the colors
every light bulb in the house but not the light
every shade from the windows but not the curtains
every blanket from my beds but not the warmth
every canned good from my cupboards but not the bread
every animal from their house but not the pets
every gift he was ever given but he left empty handed
every hug and kiss sprinkled with praise but not the love
and I let him go because he asked with action not with word.
Go away.
He sat in the back seat using his hands as a rosary
praying to holy mother Rosemary his sin not be discovered.
The violation of my air space undetected by his stealth
suddenly had air raid sirens blaring loudly,
“HOW DARE YOU?!” upon my radar screen
while I drove away and prayed the guards were adept.
A poem for Indi and Diane
I heard you crying
There are no words for their deepened grief that can make it any less.
There are no words for their bereavement that can make end time regress.
They understand that their valediction can bring the nethermost sadness.
The tenderest of beings and the sweetest of souls, finds rare solace.
They do it anyway because the honor of the hard won trust
moves gently around their spirits like precious diamond dust
They give their love with wild abandon from one soul to another
with unwavering faith and elation, like a good child to their mother.
The tenderest of beings, the sweetest of souls, find rare solace;
steadfast between these kindred hearts this their solemn promise
Until the last star vanishes, until the sun goes dark,
there will always be a place, within each others hearts.
An Independent Nondiscriminatory Platform With No Religious, Political, Financial, or Social Affiliations - FOUNDED 2014
Life is a patchwork of moments — laughter, solitude, everyday joys, and quiet aches. Through scribbled stories, I explore travels both far and inward, from sunrise over unfamiliar streets to the comfort of home. This is life as I see it, captured in ink and memory. Stick around; let's wander together.
Hosanna High Community Burial Project
True wealth is the wealth of the soul
...just a voice from the eastern Himalayan summits...
Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.
Life as an American poet of excellence
Musings and books from a grunty overthinker
Love Letters to the Tar Pit
Making Space for Dreams
binge thinking and other things in life
Mare Martell 