"I should be more unselfish, like Grandma,"
I say as I trudge into the snowy night.
"I think about myself far too often,"
I say as I retrieve the baby's snacks from the car.
"I need to do better,"
I say as I return to the house
and the people still warm in their beds
and the baby wailing for a snack.
In the morning, I realize,
I might be a little like Grandma,
after all.
My baby cries,
hurt
or scared,
or just alone.
I cuddle, keep her warm,
check what she needs.
I play, sing along to my favorite lullabies,
songs that lift and encourage and comfort,
and at last I realize
I have hidden hurts, fears,
sometimes just alone.
I need the cuddles, the warmth and the comfort,
and to check my everyday needs.
We need the darkness,
so in clinging together, we find light.
She needs me.
I need her.
I need me.
Death
is part of life.
Not an opposite,
Death is the unpopular little sister.
I, when a child,
had a pet cemetery under an apple tree
where I buried every hamster and bunny and baby chick,
where at first I mourned, and then listened to the wind and the birds,
experienced the life-filled world anew—
not forgetting, but becoming more alive.
We are told to be soft-hearted.
To be vulnerable is to allow pain,
to allow space for others with holes in their hearts,
no matter how tempting to close,
safe but empty.
Loss, and pain, and grief,
are vital, even Holy,
binding every man, every person, every creature together,
if we are soft,
if we are open.
Share, embrace, give, listen, love,
to each other, to the lost, to yourself, to our Family.
Faith is the certainty that I do not have the answers,
but that my Father has the answers,
and they are the best possible answers.
I am here, friend.
I am open.
I am trying.
We are whole in our brokenness,
and we are together.
Note: This poem goes with a previous poem, Grief. I wrote that one after losing my son. I wrote this one after my child lost a beloved pet, and the emotion is second-hand, but amplified as I worry for her.
Gail Carson Levine challenged her blog readers to write a free verse poem about their horoscope for the day. Here's my offering:
Words fall short.
The message is too big
to be captured by such tiny packages.
The true story lies
hidden
beneath the words
where we hope the best readers
will find it.
Press your eye
to the circle of the o or the dot on the i.
Can you see me?
A steady gaze meets mine, reflected in the cabin window.
No need for the guidebook or the binoculars around my neck; I can see you
perfectly.
The owl is my neighbor, yet through the summer we rarely met. Now
as darkness lengthens, our hunts overlap.
We scan the skies, flick over the ground, search for movement.
He hunts to eat. My prey flies off untouched.
Why do I hunt?
What draws me to find you?
Colored feathers. Piping voices. Watchful eyes.
Your eyes show colors I can but dream of.
History. Legend. Myth.
Good luck or bad, foretelling wisdom or death, you decorate our stories, give reality to our myths.
Names. Labels. Fact.
Child of dinosaurs, you traded scales for feathers, might for fight, yet you wear their talons unchanged.
Are these the reasons I search for you, hunt you down with eyes alone?
Or is it something deeper, unnamed, within
that draws me?
Which of us,
after all,
is prey?
I've talked to a lot of people who've said they wished they could write a book, but didn't know how to go about it. I've t...
