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…”
~
and how quickly this year has gone. It was lovely to watch this beautiful video again. Life IS precious
And while she was
clawing out
the sub conscious ponderings
on definition a, b or c
of her defeated-ness,
she saw their labyrinthine thread
had finally severed.
Her heart stilled,
begging for calibration,
a gentle reworking –
the intricate cut-outs of their pain
into simple shapes.
(this beautiful song, and video of estranged brothers reunited)
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)
"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“
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:
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 […]
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…
My brother shared this on Facebook from another page: (‘Big Bash’ refers to a cricket game, and the ‘MCG’ is the Melbourne Cricket Ground).
she said it wasn’t cold
she left her coat at home
her thoughts
in large capital letters
big enough to wrap around her
keeping her warm.
She can hear the voice
while she cradles the precious shell,
the pearl of forgiveness growing within.
She won’t go back.
Animated by the vibrancy of the connected overlooked
she invites others
to the b side.
My soul in sympathy
to those expressing grief –
I marvel at the articulation
of WordPress poets
who graciously lavish beauty
beyond horizons.
But all I can do
is exhale
the outline of a sigh,
knowing they will fill it
with words lit by transcendence
and an ancient promise,
because my own soul is heavy,
and this snow falls in
like the sighing watch of the night…
~
photo: Chase Miller
