Saving Place

Like a book mark,

a fallen tree.

I heard the echo threreof

and fell too,

marking the place in which

I left off

like so many other pages

cleft in the forest.

 

Tell me again

why these memories gather moss,

bear termite bits,

and sit like cairns in conversations.

Let me know

How to live

after I rise above the imprint

and gather its shadow

like a jacket.

 

How do I lumber along this path?

Seeing forward, glancing back,

giving ground behind and before,

I set my face like flint,

grateful for shafts of light

and the affect thereof.

Another fall into grace.

 

 

Mourning Joe

I poured clouds in my coffee,

Not to shade the cream,

But to brighten the cocoa.

 

The bitter bite of sips

edges shaved with cream,

Sweet swill of caffeine.

 

“Hey Joe, what you going to do

With that mug in your hand?”

“Just one shot of dairy.”

 

“That’s not the half-n-half of it.”

Ambiguous Intention

I was going to be grateful,

I really was.

I breathed into a new day,

And got distracted

By the bacon and its applause,

By the smell wending to my

Nose while the eggs cuddled

In its campfire grease.

Then I looked away

At the bird perched across

The field under the strands

Of pinkish, blueish, grayish

Morning light,

And I wondered how the grackle

Got so lucky to sit and be.

I got jealous of its ability

To defy gravity,

While I drank a bit of coffee.

Gratitude will just have to wait,

While I sit with my feet

Over the register under my desk–

The furnace kicked on…

I’ll be thankful later.

Sunday Psalm

Morning Dew

Unfold my arms,

Relax these tight shoulders.

 

Come, this wide-eyed morning

And lay these hesitancies on the dew.

 

Soak them mercifully, and grace

These fists in their clenched resistance.

 

Palms up, lifeline exposed

In vulnerable sweat.

 

Break upon my heart

Like the broken light,

 

Shards all around.

Toilet Paper. Three Sheets to the Wind.

Skimming through some old posts this one caught my eye. I was on a roll.

Gerald the Writer

Toilet paper. That was the first thought that rolled across my mind this morning. Then I tore off the sheet and got out of bed. Toilet paper? Would it be over the top to write about it? It was stuck in the wrinkles of my brain last night. Frank McCourt in his memoir Angela’s Ashes told the story of going back to his father’s Ireland. He had to go the 2nd number and that required him to use his grandpa’s outhouse. Nailed to the wall of the room-with-no-view was newsprint. His father had to instruct him.

I am a father too. I had to instruct too, butt  but not like my post-depression-era father—he used three sheets only, (single-ply, double-ply, or triple) only three. Sorry to put that image out there. Exit this post now and wipe it off. Geez.

What I really want to focus on is the empty…

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A Severe Mercy

Of all the seeds which fall,

Catch this one beneath the soil.

 

Beneath the soul

Where darkness blinds.

 

Where darkness binds

A willing confinement.

 

A willing refinement

Until the shell breaks open.

 

Until the shell breaks upon

To push up and down.

 

To push up around

The stem and the roots.

 

The stem and the truths

Of all the seeds which fall,

 

Even one.

 

Zip-tied or slipped tide. (Sorry, I didn’t know what to title this one.)

My eyes welled up yesterday. I felt hijacked by a compassion stored in the fruit cellar of my heart. A nice surprise.

Over the last few years of my life I’ve been doing some soul shifting. That’s right, soul shifting, not soul surfing, or even soul shaping. Shift happens. Well…not so fast.

I didn’t slouch on the sofa waiting for life to slap me across the face. I did, however, put my will down, and backed away slowly. What seemed like striving to free myself from zip-tied hands was really fear manipulation. Every time I attempted to wrangle out of the cuffs, my wrists bore witness of the struggle. Funny, the more this happened, the more it appeared as if I brandished a razor blade on them.

Is true freedom a suicide pact of sorts? May I be bold enough to say I was afraid to live and scared to death? How dramatic!

Anyone who knows me, knows my life is full of life, yet for years (Decades? Even before my thirty something years of mid-life crisis? Since my mother’s water broke?) I settled into a fallback position of sorts. My therapist described it like sitting a hundred yards from the house in the tall grass observing my family’s goings on. It’s what I knew. It’s what I was shown, father effect you might say. Father affect more like it. My Dad had the affect too, at least that was my experience of him. I miss him and wish we could talk about the similar wounds we carry. Our heart rates seemed flatter, not flattering.

Now, my thumper is fluttering on occasion. I feel, and in the feeling comes water tension on my eyes–A vision-smearing lubrication reminding me I still have a heart, and not to be afraid of it breaking, even breaking into joy. In our family there are plenty of opportunities for both kinds of breaking. Who am I kidding? I’m fairly sure every family fractures their hearts in wringing life out in close proximity.

“Oh the humanity!”

I think that might sum up this little stream of sub consciousness micro tome.

I’m feeling more human…more humane, and by the grace of God my heart will break open more frequently. The zip ties are loosening and I’m not as afraid.

Peace and prayers peeps.