Category: Poetry

The Weight of Grief

Poetry

The Weight of Grief

By

My grief has settled deep into my body,
a 71kg weight between my sternum and my spine
filling up my chest cavity, making its home.
Who knew absence could be so heavy?

The weight of this grief-love grounds me;
there is strength in it somehow,
a kind of balance that I didn’t have before. 
I have welcomed and embraced it–
this connection with the one I still love
and who is, unrelentingly, still dead.

I am not broken or fragile, but I am tired.
I carry on living and my Hope doesn’t fail,
but the unremitting demand on my resilience
brings a soul-deep weariness that never fades.

All the losses and “nevers” I feel now,
and the ones I realize afresh with each passing day,
I will carry in my body until it is my time to die.
This is my pain and my privilege.

September 25, 2021

Photo by Matthias Heil on Unsplash

I will wear my grief like a badge of honor

Poetry

I will wear my grief like a badge of honor

By

I will wear my grief like a badge of honor
   honored to love him
   honored to be loved by him 
“For what is grief,” they say,
   “if not love persevering?” 

I will wear my grief loudly, 
   proudly.
I will show the world it is not an evil 
   to be feared or avoided, 
But a journey to be embraced 
   in all its agonizing complexity. 

I will try my frail best 
   to hold hope and grief in both hands 
   as they balance and blend together. 

I will mourn relentlessly. 
I will live and love resolutely. 
And I will remember him always 
   as my grief-love shifts and flows
      down through the years 
         until we meet again

Mina S, July 29, 2021

Photo by Claire Kelly on Unsplash

Maybe it’s the wind

Poetry

Maybe it’s the wind

By

Maybe it’s the wind,
alternately sighing and whipping around the house,
slamming doors and scattering the dry, fallen leaves,
tossing up the sheet music and sending it spiraling to the floor in disarray
Maybe it’s the thunder,
rumbling darkly and ominously in the distance
threatening a storm yet withholding the rain.
Maybe it’s the clouds
casting their gray pall over the city,
making night seem near and the day long done.
Maybe it’s the music,
no matter how cheery, echoing false in my ears,
like a platitude from an insincere friend.
Maybe it’s the exhaustion
weighing down my bones, seemingly undeserved,
something more, something deeper than mere tiredness of muscle.
Maybe it’s my heart,
heavy in my chest, sinking always in spite of all the smiles and laughter
weary of all that it carries, tired from the wringing and the dread.
Maybe it’s the thoughts,
all the “never agains” and the “last times” and the “maybes,”
all the leaving, the goodbyes, the changes,
all that will be left unsaid, unfinished, undone.
Maybe.
I don’t know.
But I’m not okay.

mottled with bruises

Poetry

mottled with bruises

By

heart heavy with sorrow
my body always weary
mind slow and numb
my very soul aches

“Come to me,” he says
“you who are weary 
and heavy laden 
and I will give you rest.”

but my limbs grow weak
at the very thought
I am tired, so tired
and I shrink away

why be lifted up
why reach for hope
only to fall all the harder 
in the end

it’s the fall that hurts
the discouragement
the loneliness
the shame

what kind of rest is this?

arms mottled with bruises
palms studded with stones
mouthful of dust
weary to the bone

I think I’ll just stay
it’s safer down here
crawling close to the ground
at least I can survive this year

I can do this
I can show this facade
I can even feel like it’s real
…for a while

numb
quiet
no highs no lows
no imposition
invisible

Manna Enough – Stop Living like an Orphan

Poetry

Manna Enough – Stop Living like an Orphan

By

Adopted, precious daughter
but an orphan in my mind;
stowing up my manna thinking,

“He won’t provide, he lied.”

My fear breeds maggots
like the manna that I hoard
scrapings for tomorrow
turn to rotting, stinking mold

My heart a barren wilderness,
a mirage of abandonment, stomach empty;
but it’s raining down bread!

There’s manna provided in plenty

If I open my eyes and look
He knows exactly what I need,
He will always be here

wanting the very best for me.

To the brink of starvation,
in the strongest of my cravings,
I’ll trust his Daddy heart

and remember I need His saving.

It’s enough for today, this moment
Manna enough to get me through
My Daily Bread, fresh each morning

ever faithful, ever true

Orphan, open your heart!
The deed’s been signed and sealed.
He’s never letting go,

just let your soul be healed.

Inspired by a sermon by Pastor Tim Dunham on Exodus 16:1-16 and John 6:26-35 as well as the meditation in this video by Caroline Williams.

 

Early Flight

Poetry

Early Flight

By

The morning holds its breath
in that darkness before the dawn
eyes sticky from my sleep
face pale, haggard, drawn
Desperately needing my coffee
the neighbors surely hate me
Grinding up the beans
(I’m a cowboy coffee drinker lately)
Last minute packing
it’s frenzy in my mind
surely I’ve forgotten something
I resign with a heavy sigh
Waiting for my ride
slowing down my breath
besides mosquitoes buzzing
only sounds of sleepiness
A hint of adventure
to places unknown
a flight too stinkin’ early
just to go to the same timezone!
Prisoner of the Pit

Poetry

Prisoner of the Pit

By

Chained in a pit, deep and dark,
defined by existence in those depths.
Fingers raw and bleeding
trying to claw her way to freedom,
slumping at last in the miry bottom,
despair like lead settling in her veins.
Then suddenly the sun shines in
and bathes the prisoner in light,
scattering the simpering shadows,
bringing warmth and hope.
But the sun passes on
as all good things do;
the transitory warmth
never reaching the ice in her marrow.
And she’s left in the dark again,
at the bottom of the pit…
alone.
Photo credit: Stocksnap.io
The Words I Speak to Myself

Poetry

The Words I Speak to Myself

By

“Look at you,
you filthy scum.
Disgusting.
Shameful.
Worthless.
“Who do you think you are?
Do you really think you’re worth listening to?
You’re
Untalented.
Uninteresting.
Ugly.
“Why don’t you try harder?
You’re obviously lazy,
or totally incapable
or just a complete failure.”
The words I speak to myself
are words I’d never say to anyone else
The grace and love I pour out for others
There’s not a drop left for myself.
The words I speak to myself
shape who I am
I listen to myself
and believe
But the words I speak to myself
should be like the words I speak to others
dripping with grace
soaked in understanding
drenched in love
I should say,
“Look at you,
you delightful human.
Captivating.
Pure.
Worth more than gold.
“You are a precious daughter.
worthy of the greatest attention,
Talented.
Fascinating.
Beautiful.
“You are hardworking,
Capable.
Successful.
And even when you fall,
you get back up and strive onward.
“You are worthy of love.
The greatest Lover in all of history
found you so worth having
that He died so that he could have you.
“Live in that truth.
That you are precious,
Valuable.
Treasured.
Wanted.
“Reform the words you speak to yourself
speak the truth of who you are
because the words you say to yourself
become your identity.”
Dirty Mirror

Poetry

Dirty Mirror

By

Vivid blue eyes
blurred by tears
stare back at me
through the dirty mirror
I see
imperfections
problems
every single flaw:
acne
weight gain
failure
shame
Just when I’m starting
to feel confident again
the mirror
the camera
the insensitive friend
reminds me
I’m not good enough
Will I ever be?
Trying
failing
working so freaking hard
to be perfect
flawless
problem-free
Why am I grasping, straining, clutching
striving after the impossible,
the unnecessary?
I’m loved
I’m treasured
without me trying
sans my effort
minus my strivings
I’m accepted
in spite of my imperfections
together with my failures
along with my problems
Accepted
when the mirror mocks me
when the shame won’t die
when failure stalks me
Accepted
because His love is constant
never changing
ever embracing
Accepted
deeper than a bottomless ocean
broader than East to West
Snails, Dust, and Suitcases – Musings on Moving

Poetry

Snails, Dust, and Suitcases – Musings on Moving

By

My room is eerily empty
dust gathers on the floor.
Taped up boxes filled to the brim
hauled, one-by-one, out the door
The contents of my half-packed suitcase
the nearly empty bookcase
with only a few abandoned volumes
filling up the empty space
Crumbs of this,
pieces of that
this paper a treasure,
that one trash
A thrill for the new
an ache for the old
leaving is never easy
but the house is being sold
Cobwebs in the corner-
they’ve always been there-
water heater’s broken
the snails and spiders stare
The breezeway is filthy
stains my feet black
my aircon keeps breaking
the screen door pops back
Frogs on my doorknob
coming up the drain
cockroach on my shoulder
snails appear when it rains
You could say it’s got “character”
Full of it’s own unique flaws
But it’s the place I felt at home
and certainly not without cause
Three whole years
doesn’t sound like much
but it sure adds up when
you’re living life and such
Well, we’re not going far
but it’s the end of a season
I’ll pine for the lizard’s song
but I won’t miss the sneezin’