A stone in the sand
dents me
at the edge of frailty –
I am of parts, jagged as
the coastline where
the tide pushed,
having gone far now
from the beginning
like my mother went
back, where waters were
warm, where the ocean
kept a song of us she
never stopped loving,
and she tried more than
many will need
having, on cruelty,
a softness she built up
and beneath it a knife
always ready;
sensing it there
held even in sleep,
the forced inattention to
giggle when she would laugh to
stay silent unless agreeing –
and I existed in fable
taking on too much water
and snapped as the rebar
too solid and needy broke,
and dropped in pieces
like every stone
left in places I felt free –
every bit of that old heart
except what gave purpose
left behind, grabbing
at leaves and sky, ravenous
feeling their immortality, their
constant warmth like
a mother’s love,
gone before it was gone.
Tag: hope
endurance
The tide will come in
but I - always - outrun
upon - jutting rocks
once - being a starfish
have held - air, face-down
procrastinated - tongue
folded - words and
right to live – tendered
to – the past
like a sunflower diverted
by the sun – so will I
inevitably - halting syllables
having no root – only
sound of a creature once caught
this hobbled back - sand
between teeth
now face up - the air full
lungs stretched - elastic
as the tide - could sing now
running mid the waves.
tread the line
a prayer,
this fog before
the dawn, crunchy
leaves so light
on the old elm
ignites wildfire
in the blue hour
dry | scattered
who couldn't
let go
and awakened
full but still thirsty
before the sun
could release
the moon's edge.
Like a river
effortlessly, truth
takes many turns
and hand-over-hand in
darkness, thoughts:
soot and smoke
on the water,
pray a choice
of stillness
despite.
And of freedom, a
life not owned
by shadow,
shake
instead like all things
shocked must do
as all living is shocked
until nothing of old
leaves any ember
that may spark/
even hope
and the cruelty
or the way
smiling
can be a rebellion
when loved have gone-
pray any fire,
a peacemaker
if the rebellion
must go on.
And for the wailing cat
hungry mouth
and mangy
coat
too messy
to grow love
or to have a
warm hand
upon it,
pray, too;
for daisy chains,
crowns on would-be
princesses and princes,
for baby frogs in pencil
cases, and lizards
clamped on
sweaty
ears
because
the children's play
is survival
and to smile at the abyss
at its ferocity, then
because we are fierce,
the same.
But, pray especially
for paper dolls
torn with rough edges,
the square pegs
in round holes
that they know
who they are
and are curious
of what they are not-
a rain held as it grows
having been brave
to accept their
beauty,
and that of others/
knowing need.
Pray for the thirst
the blue hour
sparks
every line of every
hill, clear as the
moon’s edge
when the sun so close
will soon arrive
or soon go,
a time to shake free.
skipping stones 