Is is me who I grieve for.
My heart and soul wait
anticipating it all to be as I want, but
I chose you, unwisely.
Why cant you be more, be what I want?
All of you, the collective you too.
But it is only me,
smothering in want and need.
Occasionally the sun breaks through but only to be swallowed by the sea, again.
Will it rise tomorrow?
Maybe not.
It is all slipping away,
It is almost over.
Until next time,
love,
next life.
I have joined my sisters and retreated.
Back and back to the very beginning,
Not just my beginning but yours, ours.
Back to when the sacredness of women was honored.
A time when it was known and valued that women were
The givers of life and holders of stars.
Society has changed over the years, but in our hearts there remains
An understanding of the continuity of our original place and purpose.
We know that we are not in or of this world
But exist in our eternal beingness.
We are awake and are coming back to claim our rightful place.
The past is remembered in our collective consciousness and it is with renewed Courage and strength that we again dance in the forest,
And the forest dances in us.
Once more the mountains and ocean belong to us,
And we to them.
Our renewed story is a recognition of our eternal story.
It is the story of our connection to the divine,
Not one limited to any certain place or time but a story for all eternity.
The same eternity that resides in a milkweed bloom, a bird’s egg,
A baby’s laugh, and our hearts.
And although our voices remain soft and gentle, we will no longer be silenced.
We are not done with this world and
The writing of our collective story will never be finished
As it has no beginning or end.
Our time is now and together we will step out of time one by one and
Rejoin our story where we were forced out of it years ago.
We are still the givers of life and
The holders of stars.
Sacred women once more,
As one voice and mind.
Together again and always.
Come, sit and sip with me again.
The tea will warm our hands, the wine our hearts.
Hold my hands across the table once more and
Watch and feel my eyes melt into yours.
I know your heart hears mine but you pull
Your sweater tight and muffle its cries for me.
Let it out, it only wants to share.
Don’t be afraid,
Your heart won’t leave you for me and mine
Won’t leave me for you, but
They will meet when
Our chests touch.
Their harmonic beauty will speak to us in peace and love and
Lull us into the sweetness of sleep
Among the tea mugs
And wine glasses.
10/24/15
It waits with patience hands
Outside our knowing, waiting to be let in.
Its story is always the same,
Its truth dependable but not always what we want to hear.
There is no hypocrisy, no deceit in its soul.
It is the soul that fills the void, that encompasses the eternal.
It exists in rhythms of time, tides of dependability,
Cycles of freedom and seasons of hope.
It can be ignored, but never escaped and so it waits,
In beauty and joy, in bliss and acceptance, in love and peace,
For us to wake up and realize it is but a mirror of ourselves,
The face of our existence, the light in our souls,
The essence of our being
Before we were born.
His hands are weightless
His smile, eternal.
His eyes hold all the stars in the universe,
All the light of a million suns.
His energy charges every cell in my body and
His love powers and drives my nightly dreams.
When he speaks to me, his words feel like a warm soft blanket
Draped with love over my shoulders.
His voice comes to me in the silence of meditation telling me to stop,
To let it all go.
He tells me that good will only come to me
After I throw out and reject the darkness.
He watches in silence and sadness as
I try but fail over and over…
He knows he can’t do it for me.
I know I can’t do it for myself.
What can I say –
There are no words left…
No correct ones, anyway, but even without words
love’s heart lingers.
The useless words drip down the windows of my soul like rain
Turning snow to slush
And white noise to wet mud.
Sucking me under again.
The memories can’t be erased, or ignored.
And although they can’t be sucked back into non-being,
They begin to fade and with time become so thin they blend with the dripping snow,
But still I cannot, will not, forget or give them up.
I know the memories will remain mine,
Always mine and each time the same.
They will stay in my mind beautiful and true
Until time steps out of time and begins again.
(Poem #5 April 5, 2017)
Evening shadows shift
Through broken windows.
Chimney bricks slide down the roof
Puddleing under the lilac bush.
Weeds spread into the driveway
Reclaiming it for themselves.
When was this house built?
Was it ever new?
The yard and doorframes bear witness
To the families who grew here.
Long forgotten toys and broken swings
Hide beneath the matted field grass.
A broken clothesline flaps in the gray autumn breeze and
Sprung clothespins mold and rot into the ground beneath the broken posts.
Feral cats are now the only life that calls this old farm home,
And birdsong still fills the rafters of the barn.
The barn that once held livestock
Sits shifted on its foundation,
Listing and leaning to the south,
Away from winter’s fierce winds.
The stately oak gracing the front yard is rotten and broken,
Its fingers through the house roof.
Where did they go, the people
Who called this place home?
When the last one left,
Why didn’t they clean out the house?
Why not take the toys?
Close the windows? Lock the doors?
Did they not know they were
Never coming back?
The windmill out back has long ago
Crashed into the apple orchard,
Breaking in to pieces as it fell
and crushing the trees it had stood watch over all these years.
But in man’s absence
The apple trees continue to produce.
The lilac bushes flower every spring in spite of
Not being “cared for” in over 40 years.
The forest is slowing creeping back in to fill the void
Left when the field was abandoned.
All that remains of the people who once called this spot of land home
Is the family graveyard,
Where stones are carved with love and care,
Preserving for all time the names and dates of those whose lives began and ended here.
But the lilacs don’t care about being preserved,
The Oak is beyond pride and the buildings are slowly returning to the soil,
Just like the bodies beneath the stones.
Another 40 years and the stones will be all that remains.
They will be all that is left to tell the story
Of a time gone by.
The story of a house built to last a lifetime, a barn crafted with pride,
The story of generations of a family who lived, worked and died on this land.
A story only the stones will remember.
It waits with patience hands
Outside our knowing, waiting to be let in.
Its story is always the same,
Its truth dependable but not always what we want to hear.
There is no hypocrisy, no deceit in its soul.
It is the soul that fills the void, that encompasses the eternal.
It exists in rhythms of time, tides of dependability,
Cycles of freedom and seasons of hope.
It can be ignored, but never escaped and so it waits,
In beauty and joy, in bliss and acceptance, in love and peace,
For us to wake up and realize it is but a mirror of ourselves,
The face of our existence, the light in our souls,
The essence of our being
Before we were born.
I made too much of it,
More than it was.
But not at all what I
Wanted it to be.
Yet I continued, wanting,
Wishing, and hoping and for what?
For another night? It was just a one night
At a time love.
It feels unreal now,
a waste of me, of my soul and heart.
And now begins the slow fade into blackness and silence, just like all the others, as
My soul bleeds and my heart beat stops and
My eyes, still in their blindness, wish it were not so.
A soft whispered kiss
Midnight love is always best
His heart keeps mine close
2/21/17
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