the air has turned cold.
my thoughts turning, unfold
and you turn,
as I’m tugging
on the ontological thread
that glistens in the tread
of your psyche.
the air has turned night
and this thread
warms me alive.
(Marble image and wedding image from Pexels.com)
So here’s a thing, our lives have taken an interesting turn because of a cancer scare for my husband. He has had pancreatitis for years, and we were told a long time ago, he most likely will be a candidate for cancer at some point. Now he has growths in his pancreas. One is not currently cancerous, we are hopefully finding out more soon about the other one. We are remaining optimistic at this point. But they are large growths and one of them is in an inconvenient place and we will still have to make decisions on what to do about them.
He studied her blanks, his heart a magnifying glass as he carefully copied out each jot that filled the lens. He often sat back, in surprise and wonder, sometimes awe, sometimes astonishment. Sometimes, sadness, that could not be expressed in any current language, he mourned.
He didn’t have enough colours. But the poetry, brought him to his knees.
(Revisited with audio of my reading)
"Can we just lie here for a moment? She knows what to do and it's so much easier to make out the words if you press your ear against the stone." He hated this place. But she promised it would be the last time. And it had started to snow. It would hopefully slow the others down. They needed to leave. He was too scared to look at his watch and now he was struck by how beautiful she looked in this light. That pink light, reflecting from the tears frozen on her face. He pulled her gently up from her mother's grave.
Lyrics: mother they are coming again they come to shoot what we already lost mother they are coming again our silver covered by their rust father they are coming again they come to jail the things that i have seen father they are coming again burning minds to keep the ruin clean no one is around „little girl there’s safer ground follow the sea and you will find that place little girl there’s safer ground come take your years and put them in their hands“
(Revisited with audio of my reading)
She didn't say anything. Why wasn't she saying anything? But she had. She just couldn't hear her. She had always heard her through her heart, and now it was frozen to her cheeks. He lifted her up as her chest was caving in. He sang instead. The words she had taught him when they met, years before. The ones she had heard from her mother's friend. Before they never saw him again. "Little girl, there's safer ground..." That ground. Rising up out of the sea of him.
Lyrics:
I typed my thought in
to the search bar of my mind
and lo! it timed out!
~+~
My brother and I were discussing the Beatles, and I reminded him that in an interview, Paul McCartney was asked what it was like to be the best song writer in the world. He said something like, “I don’t know, ask Neil Finn!” Thus began another CH listening spree.
This song was, firstly, a Split Enz song, (1984) appropriately recorded at the end of their life as a band. Then CH re recorded it at the beginning of its life. It was a big deal (the dissolving of Split Enz) for Australia and New Zealand.
This Easter has been a time of new beginnings for my brother and me. Can you hear me smiling? And, as much as many talk about walking away from toxic relationships, or people we just don’t like, or maybe, we are just spoilt and things aren’t going the way we think they should, for me, this is about walking away from the terrible thought patterns I had developed over the years. I honestly can’t think of anyone I want to walk away from. I would much rather walk away from the bad way I have handled some things.
Here’s to new beginnings. And to wiser loving. Of others, and myself.
A while ago, I had some pretty serious depression. And I knew it was depression for a lot of reasons, but most disturbingly, I had lost complete interest in music.
(This blog has been some wonderful therapy.)
Over the last week, I have felt moved to spontaneously sing love songs. I haven’t done this for a very long time, when I think about it, and, admittedly, it was over chocolate. But still, it was a very good sign.
I confess, though, there was some slight collateral damage…
Me: (opening fridge and seeing the chocolate chip hot cross buns I had forgotten about. My heart bursting into the chorus of “Silly Love Songs” by Paul McCartney and Wings.)
I…….LOVE…….YOU…….
(notes dripping smiles)
Husband: (in another room) Awwww, I love you too, Honey.
(Pause. A very distinct pause).
Did I hear you open the fridge?
I kid you not. He actually asked me that. And then he said:
Are you actually singing to the hot cross buns?
Now kids, we will be married for twenty two years this June. That is a whole other post that I probably won’t write. But, I will say, we are at a point where we can laugh heartily at our foibles, rather than be so offended by them. Well, in this scenario, I can only speak for myself when I say that I wasn’t offended.
I am pretty sure he was laughing, too. And not in that sympathy way…pretty sure…
(I did find it alarming, however, that he knew exactly what was happening without witnessing any of it. Come to think of it, being a sort of introvert, that kind of offends me.)
But I really did think it would be a one off deal. The whole thing surprised me. Until a couple of days later, after we had a glorious evening meal outside in the spectacular autumnal caress of divine weather known as autumn – he had cooked up a lovely, well balanced summer meal for himself, and I had a punnet of strawberries and a snickers bar, you know, the things I would imagine you would pick from the trees in the garden of Eden.
I took our dirty dishes (or in my case, packaging) inside.
Sunshine,
my only sunshine,
you make me happy…
is, of course, not what was
BURSTING OUT OF MY HEART AS I HELD THE CHOCOLATE WRAPPER…
So after FFP and I figured out how to share this, because I am a bit share illiterate, and we are staring at our screens wondering where the ‘reblog’ button went…I am giving this a go…
If you are so inclined, click on this. I thought it was a gorgeous piece. And by piece, I mean the poem, as lovely as the artwork is.
LOVE it FFP!
(Also, I love that it’s not on Valentine’s Day).
Enigmas like this Don’t come ’round every bend: How best he be told, (In language aptly bold) Of the love, The constant LOVE I have for the storm of him? My impassions brimmed, I aim at words to tell it all, Make other love-claimers ashamed, Inadequate– Though even my claim is not Commensurate To the […]
when he looked at her,
his eyes
carrying the caveats
of a thousand dreams,
and in just the right light
when she angled her perception,
her kaleidoscopic-ed name
he’d arranged
as invitation…
“…how rare, and beautiful it truly is, that we exist…”
on her owl backpack,
“Doctor Vanessa,
she does have blood in her wing
so she’ll be fine.
But there’s no milk
or strawberries
or blue berries.
Or furpleberries…”
“But she’s allergic to furpleberries” I remind her.
“Oh yeah, don’t give her furpleberries”.
Serious silence sinews our thoughts together.
“Dr Vanessa,
I took off her heart
so she won’t be sick anymore.”
“Why, Dr Bailee,
you’re a genius…”
After contemplating the important work we’ve accomplished,
eight year old niece decides we need a song. Her currently favourite song.
(If you are so inclined, please sing and dance with us):
(featured image artwork by Dr Bailee)
quietly
the ground
roller-coasted beneath
shyly
the sound
tried to leave its bequeath
in the hope
it would heal
in the last
…the colour from her dream,
it drained right through dimensions,
the syntax, and the stream.
Euphonious not to mourners
the notes unveiled in grief,
but heaven writes the harmonies
and descants of relief.
A young life filled with purpose
and at peace with what was granted,
the air broke into sombre tears
and drenched our hearts enchanted.
Our thoughts fragmented bloodlessly,
were washed and torn united,
we shared the pieces silently
a mosaic of love requited.
We will never be the same again
for all the death we’ve seen,
my heart is full of unexplained
it bows to deeds unseen…
(This was the recessional song for young Tyler’s funeral. That whole experience was incredibly moving. We hadn’t been in touch for a while as he had moved away. His Dad shared the story that a couple of weeks before his accident, his girlfriend had a dream that he died. She was, of course, really upset by it and discussed it with Tyler. He talked about what he would want if it actually happened. One of the things that came out was that he wanted to be an organ donor. So as of that morning, his Dad informed everyone during his tribute, that two men had been saved by his kidneys…)
ponders myself
a day that’s already bled in
(365 times Hallmark)
to our psyches’ movement
through mountained plains
perpetual translating
of the countenanced refrains
that echo
after birth.
The depth obfuscated, unsung
fully,
we play punctiliously with undone
really
and the cardium layers hold hands
tightly
tremoring with the ache
of a thousand forms.
For nothing is what it seams
we wake from wrongly so/ewn dreams
in that cold sweat of generations
we honour with strange venerations
those undeserving.
And there’s no way to finish these lines
kaleidoscoped mystery of a child’s eyes…
he wore his strobe light
to precise his own sight
incising surreal
into a savoury byte
she wore lightning cloud
it fireworked the shroud
the diaphanous shield
of cataract crowd
they met late one noon
not a decade too soon
their time in half life
when lit by half moon
they laughingly shied
and together they cried
out relief of their failing
when hopeless they tried
synchronisation
endless illumination
their timing instead
fuelled love’s fascination-
of dark with the dark
love’s company,
divine spark…
what a recondite day for a funeral
the sky the colour of wind
with it’s abstruse way of connecting
and a restless need to rescind
the boundaries of pre conceived notions
that death is a part of life
we weren’t created to be separated
I’ll never stop thinking we’re rife
with the agonies of dimensional distance
cunning, convoluted and cruel
I thank God for blessed reunions
and perfuming the stench of death’s fuel.
the sunder striking
the darkening claps applause
love’s tears, healing pause
(I’ve always loved this song. I like to think of it in the humble voice of Christ sometimes).
So for those of you who don’t know, I am married to a Lutheran pastor.
I could seriously write a book about what life has been like in the last 20+ years living this reality. The thing is, if I did, I would have to kill everyone first. Because changing names wouldn’t be enough.
I jest, of course!
But, these people are dear to my heart. My husband is the pastor of five churches and our churches are small. And of course, microcosms of greater realities. There are times I have enjoyed worshipping with big congregations. The fellowship can be incredible. However, for people with anxiety issues, being welcomed into a smaller community has been an extremely healing thing for them, and we have witnessed beautiful things that literally brings tears to my eyes.
One of the highlights for me was when a very reclusive gentleman, who has some serious anxiety issues for a number of reasons, finally joined our smallest congregation. To say that it terrifies him to join a large group of people, would be a grave understatement. So to see his ongoing healing from the love in that community, has been nothing short of amazing. Last year, he called our house to wish me a happy birthday on behalf of their little church. It is hard for me to put into words what that meant to me, because I know the agony he would have gone through before he made that call. (Please don’t tell him I wrote about him, he would die! 🙂 )
I truly feel blessed I am a part of all of this. And I will always be proud to be a part of these families. Warts and all.
(And thank you WordPress, for being another “family” I have come to love.)
But she really did love those tiles.
They were hand made
and placed with loving
carelessness, in haste.
She picked them for practicality
for their water proof qualities
she thought,
(not thinking about salt water, of course),
and their quirkiness,
something different for everyone.
He helped her peel them off,
“it’s time for a renovation”, he said.
And they exchanged those looks.
The knowing one she thought she always had
he now wore.
Because really, he knew this was no renovation.
It was simply an unveiling.
(‘Cursum Perficio’ was engraved on tiles in the entrance to Marilyn Monroe’s last home. It wasn’t actually in mind when I started writing this, it came afterwards, hence the title…)
shooting from the mirror
orange-ing my cornea,
engulfing visions of coin essenced gods:
one side indifference
flip side-
malevolent melodrama,
currency –
greed.
No,
I need the One
who stands in the flames with me –
melting in my place.
Breathing the purple
into my lungs.
(I took this photo yesterday of my father. He still works as a landscaper, at 83! He helps to take care of this beautiful property for his friend, who died a couple of years ago. He helps to lovingly tend it for her children who currently live elsewhere.)
*
your whispering legacy haunted
those delightfully enchanted trees
they bashfully danced to the harmony’s spell
you cast on ebullient breeze.
gentle tread of your variegated spirit
autumned now with so much grace
I know you have moved on in silence
but our movement here follows your trace.
the impression of a loved one’s silhouette
caught tenderly in a still frame
is a clear photographic injustice
to the care that he takes in your name…
