In the Darkness
I long for the dark,
for the light reveals flaws
impossible to conceal.
In the dark, I am without fault.
I am beautiful.
I am pure.
The darkness gives me
strength, confidence.
What a shame no one
wants to join me there.
I long for the dark,
for the light reveals flaws
impossible to conceal.
In the dark, I am without fault.
I am beautiful.
I am pure.
The darkness gives me
strength, confidence.
What a shame no one
wants to join me there.
You are the light in morning bloom
wrapped in love, no hint of gloom.
Heaven smiles with every breath—
you are safe, in life, and in death.
Little hands, so pure and free
held by One you cannot see.
But his touch is soft and near
in each joy and every tear.
Sunlight dances when you sigh
angles hum you a lullaby.
Child of grace, in Him you rest—
cradled close, forever blessed.
SLB
•Posted with permission by my co-author.
My Dearest Ash:
Life, with all its unexpected twists and turns
I hope this new bridge we’ve built never burns.
I hope the clock on us never runs out,
For if it did, all I could do is pout.
Sometimes I’m filled with aching doubt,
It makes me want to scream and shout,
To thrash around and wear a frown,
Ashamed, a fool, I’d tumble down.
I wonder; had I stopped to scout,
Would I have chosen a different route?
But I’d hate to miss even one sweet kiss,
So I’ll stay the course, hold fast to this.
I’ll try not to push or force or fight,
For if I did, it wouldn’t feel right.
I’d only be left with deep remorse
So I’ll move with love, not brute force.
I hope you don’t find my words too coarse,
But if you do, let me reinforce:
My love for you is clear and true,
Solid, shining; like quartz, through and through
Love,
Kells
Baking for two friends
One is my neighbor next door
He mows my grass as
needed, pushes my Herbie
to the curb with smiles galore.
The other is my
hand therapist who guides me
on strength and sensation
for these damaged appendages
so I can bake these Scotchies.
I went looking for god
in a 100-year-old church
and heard her
in the soloist wrapped
in an Italian aria,
in the blonde woman
who offered a name,
a city she left,
a place she’s settled.
I found god in words
of a visiting minister
speaking of imagination
using Minecraft
illustrations,
in a middle-aged
greeter wearing a Sunday
smile and plaid Bermudas,
inside heavy doors flung wide
open for many
out of step
sleepless
raging
discouraged.
I found her in slender
swaying bamboo
watching us through three
gothic windows
stretching leaves toward the heavens.
sweet silence ~ air softly caresses
seed programmed to gently master
still magic held in an illusionist’s hand
deeper
nature’s witness softly cheers me on
Silence ~ mitochondria’s unfulfilled promise
assurance seed
listening
i am guided
Mother’s Nature’s embrace
i am cradled
how can i doubt her messages?
familiar ~ as it is
nature’s kiss not easily forgotten
my history soothed . . . as i become my own past
In the archives,
I’m buckled.
I want to hear every ghost.
“Miss Joanna Wrigglesworth,
remarkably beautiful corpse.”
What hand wrote that,
and what did it mean?
That even in death,
a woman’s value is how she lies still?
Or maybe the pen trembled with awe.
Maybe the writer loved her.
Maybe beauty bloomed in the face’s final slackness,
like the sudden iridescence
on a Mourning Cloak wing
when the light tilts just so.
“Charles S. Boswell,
killed in a rencounter
by Richard Munson.”
It sounds like a pistol shot,
like men who refused
to see grief as something you walk with
instead of fire at.
“Mr. David Sutton, aged 65,
fell through the trapdoor of a store.”
And isn’t that how it happens?
You’re walking,
then you’re falling,
then the cellar takes you.
Even your sight can’t save you.
“Joseph Breen, Esq., aged 53.
Death caused by immoderate grief
for his only son,
who was suffocated
when his bedchamber caught fire
on Christmas Eve.”
I read it again.
I know this grief.
Immoderate.
Hold the paper to the light
and it stirs,
fluttering like unpinned memory.
Mom loves lighthouses.
I’m a bit of a backwoods baby girl
In my delicious, lush like blackberries dripping purple from a vine feminine era
Maybe we could crush some up and dye my skin
Later lick away the sour sweetness raw tongue hot against me
The exchange of heat tickling the bare inches of our bodies as you move closer
I am small and sweet, like a berry held between your fingertips
Place that berry juice exactly where you want it
Purple stained handprints across my body
From length of spine, seeds intermingled with the sticky paint
Your arms wrapped so tight around my ribs
Just like the bush covering over the earth below
As if they dig themselves inward to the moss and soil
Those brambles a holy crown of touch, desire, ecstasy
Our hillbilly ritual of protection and magic
My body wrapped in fruitful thickets of supple delight
From the vine
To make mine
