Roaring Back to Life

On the branches of her confused optimism
A piece has turned to tender literature.
The woman’s end has, in fact, created her beloved.
Her experience finds this absurd; that’s the reality.
She despises the line between beginning and end;
It takes all hope away
Once, she’d loved, because she’d known since birth.
When she fell into the clenched fist, she was, in fact, hopeful.
She wrote, in order to keep from feeling guilty.
Writing down memory is a deeper process.
Pierced by silences, suffering went unspoken, understood.
She connected to what she was learning.
Just a voice on the page, certain of being heard.
The notes mark her work, inventing that song.
She could no longer be a swallowed spirit.
In memory, she decided to live for love


2016-12-09 Lovely

Take care, my lovely
Though the breaths may be hasty
And the lines may be shallow
The moon is still crisp.
Shining upon your quivering fingers
Hold steady
Awake from your nightmares
Rise from the night
My sweet one.
I am with you
With waves of calm
With the pressing force of motion
Spinning becomes swaying
Swaying becomes rocking
Back and forth.
I cradle you, new emotion.



2016-11-29 Metaphor

I am not some lesson to be learned.
Some hideous example of
“what to do, what not to do.”
My writing is not a compendium on grief.
Forwards, backwards, inside out,
I leave holes, gaps, questions unanswered.
I am not a litany of cliches.
Each trigger cuts me sideways.
Each reminder brings to the forefront
any muted emotions.
No metaphor can capture.
It is a mere solitary experience.



2016-11-17 No

Saying NO is like casting a circle of protection around what is most true, claiming it as yours. 

It was not meant to be.
I won’t apologize for my tears.
It will not be your timetable; it will be mine.
I am not healed.
I am not strong.
Nor am I weak.
I will not be invalidated.