Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.
Like Dicken’s “Tale of Two Cities” I have lived a tale of polar opposites. I have known a dark night of the soul and the fresh morning dew of enlightenment.
No memories can ever be forgotten but they can be forgiven. And the forgiveness allows me to wake up and be grateful for everything. Even the memories that still cause sharp pains. Those are the memories that led me to despair and wrestle in a black, plastic garbage bag until I finally took the knife, I once used against myself, and started cutting open breathing holes.
So what has been going on? So much!!! Sitting under a poetry mentor. Restructuring old poetry and finding myself. Taking piano lessons. Working on Mozart and Tchaikovsky pieces.
I start a new volunteer position in a women’s homeless shelter directing an art therapy group in mid-June. After i take a solo travel trip to Nantucket.
The daily weather is cooperating so tending to my new garden in Harvard Massachusetts. It has been almost a year that we moved to the Boston area. Busy picking up sticks winter strewn about the yard and wondering where to station a summer writing cabin. The best of my days are spent sitting atop prospect hill, watching the sunsets.
I hope to be able to spend more time here at WP. I do hope.
The year 2018 is locked away. The key, fiery hot, so as not to entice people to hold on. Look back.
I look forward to 2019. My prayer focuses on the war of words, which has reached a feverish pitch. I honestly hope people’s superiority complexes does not burn down houses; leave room to erect new powers and diminish freedoms.
I smell the fires burning and there is little relief. In our condemnation, humanity in one fell swoop, dresses outlandish lies with mixed-up truths.
Seems to me
as we slowly decline,
we beat around the bush,
contemplate how to survive.
Generations realize this drift,
on a sail-less boat,
the cloth wrapped around our bleeding hearts,
words confessed on bended knees,
misses the sliver in private eyes.
Same old, same old story.
The beginning is the end.
The terror in other’s minds now belongs to us.
Realize hungry is, as was,
and nothing eaten ever satisfies.
Measure our words against ourselves
need I stand upon a soapbox,
add my rhetorict to humanity’s misery?
As ash buries the smoldering coals
are we aware we are wandering,
found among the lost pile of civility?
All those details in life… begging feedback. I am so unsure of myself. My glasses either need adjusting or my self-esteem could use a boost. Perhaps a week, sunning on Florida sands, lapping up the beams of light, will readjust my outlook.
I wonder, will a halo appear above my head? Or maybe I am forever destined to carry a pitchfork with me, to crumble the ice surrounding my heart.
My thoughts triumphant… they scarcely tell the true story of the conscience. I am not sure i would take the dare to display the rocks tumbling in my stomach. Beauty is fleeting.
Yesterday taught me a lesson. Simplify. Everything. Until I realize I’ve let go of everything I believed in. Even the mountains crumble. Their majestic prowess is destined to fall. Pride is best kept humble.
So those cravings? I let them go too. To wonder how he is doing, too sacred to know.