Birth

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It is said

by mouths that do not move

it is gauche to write about oneself

(over-much)

and she didn’t always, for the world had so many things to describe

until the sink hole swallowed her breath, tar covered and added feathers

her crimson brand ran like a howl down a deserted one-eyed street

if she were a fish she’d have no scales, and nothing to measure what she lost

nor a compass to find through hooded treeline, her way back to who she’d been before

this is the way of transformation

forced from our stage we are bound and gagged

the way forward obscured like rubbing grease on glass

it hurt to be cut by ice, it stung to know no intuitive language

hands tore at her sides whilst she slept on a brick within a house, held down by gravity

they told her; you will not recover it is time, to put aside hope

along with your beautiful dresses, your long dreams and afternoon sun

she wasn’t ready to lie, like a pin against other cold metal

to be counted and cooked to the marrow, ready for sucking

for she was warm, she was alive, she hadn’t climbed all her life, just to see a cloudy day

it wasn’t her way to admit defeat

as migrating birds returned and sat like tired audience to her calls for help

she knew, a fight is never asked for, it beckons you when you stand on cliffs edge

trying to count the ways you might die

such a sorrow in planning your own end, long before you intended

she still had so much still to do

hair to plait, skirts to hitch, and ride, ride out into the wilderness

where raw bones are the purest listener

they will hear you when you throw yourself down on wet moss and

burying your fevered head in earth, call upon angels

for protection was something she hadn’t thought of

since she was a little kid walking to school alone

and then she had an imaginary horse, and all the years to come

now, the clocks turn back, time rushes forward like an impulsive guest

who has drunk her fill

ransacking light she streaks out into the forest and you cannot follow

because she is quickly absorbed into gesturing evening dusk

perhaps never there at all

that’s how she feels now, half alive, half hanging on

at the witching hour, it is all she can do not to throw herself into the glittering lights of oncoming traffic

for she is not as strong as those who endure like a costume, their own brand of hell

she has only herself and it isn’t enough

so the words come

and they stay loose and unsure upon the page

as if they know her fragility and their own insubstantial compose

if she can stay long enough, maybe she’ll see something new

maintaining equal hope with encroaching dawn

that is when everything from the day before, gathers

turns to dust and we begin over, perhaps better

with every urging push, splitting apart, garnering strength from invisible force

as fierce and distant as a Northern wind

we who know, how to birth life and produce hope

from the fragility of almost nothing

 

(Inspired by RandomwordsbyRuth who said; “Survival is the highest form of compliment we can give ourselves.’)

The worm

Why have you never been happy? Asked the caterpillar

I do not know, said the worm

For I have tried, to find meaning in wriggling through mud

Surely I have put effort into higher purpose 

Yet it eludes me for certain

And the caterpillar

Understood

For he would soon transfer his frustration

Into colored flight

Becoming even if for a short while

A thing of polination and cast of beauty

Surely people wept when his life, so short, would end

And still they taunt the worm though it cleanses the earth

For we are kinder to beauty than usefulness

And our lot is hard to fathom

From a ninety degree turn

Walking as we do, on top of the worm

Walked with angels

You are the wonder of the world
a red man come from desert

you saved this girl from drowning in sand

pricked her lips with cacti juice

told her of the stars in your mouth

collapsing mountains

summoning sleeping giants to lie beneath us.

With cicadas, you wove me a blanket of safety

though you had nothing

you gave me all.

From the empty handed

comes the greatest gift

unfolding like paper water lillies

leaving stigmatas in my palm

the shape of echoing stars.

Never apologize 

Dearest

for being poor or empty handed

when your feathers are full and sunset lifts you high

the circumference of your heart

longer than a sincere word

taught me humility

and how to know 

the tenderness of kindness comes often 

from those who receive no thanks

for they are not rich

nor need those things to sustain their souls

walking with angels.

You are a man of your ancestors

truth in the words

as the bell chimed, you took me to be yours

pouring salvation into candles 

lighting my way to freedom.

So many years I had been caught by the neck

twisting in the wind unable to escape

the trap of circumstance

and in one pull 

you gathered me close and saved me

a hunter turned tender 

for the fluttering of his people

bestowing goodness like late harvest.

From the empty handed

comes the greatest gift

before we reach heaven

we may have still

walked with angels.

Water


Do you believe?

In

Things greater than 

Yourself?

Do you believe?

In 

Miracles?

Do you believe?

It will end and you will 

Rise up

Out of your bed of pain and fear?

That it will be gone

Dissolved like thin snow or frost

A beautiful nightmare?

Vanquished are the ghosts

You will in time not

Recall the laminate corridors

Antiseptic sting and gag reflex

A night nurse plunging needle

The faces behind morphine dream

Your room mate gasping as if 

Being ravished by herself

A chink of light through heavy curtain

Of hope

A scarescrow angel, you kept the hounds at bay

And mark, in my heart, pressing jewels to forlorn crown

Each gummy bear, red, violet, purple

Like bruises and flowers lain slow

You visit me there, in the crook of my arm

Where anihalation takes her naked bow

You wipe my cheeks of salt, bestow your own token

Posies of disease, viruses for the clean

Small bird bones picked lean, glossy in bleach

They watch her take the boat too far from land and wink out

Like a smudge on the line between life and horizon

They would 

Ask her to turn herself around

Return to the ward, the pill bottle, the undergarment of her lurk

But she has already begun 

To dissolve

Like fine powder

Moving on the swell of clouds

All around birds make noise

And drown out 

The feeling that

She has nothing left to burn

But the thin blue line holding

Our faces out of water