When Grief Is Like A Runaway Train

mt church

When Grief Is Like A Runaway Train

There is a hole as wide as a manhole cover
Shot through the inside of me
We are tangled up in a web of grief
And darkness cannot hide

The sun is screaming today
There are words behind the rays
Sweat and blood drip
We are hot and tired

The ties that bind
Cords of humanity are stronger than the death grip
I see a cord of three
Still
I know

The web is tangled, connecting us
All
Me to you and you to them and me to them
The those who gathered to pray
When hate walked in

Shot a hole through the insides of the souls
Gathered and huddled round the holy
And darkness cannot hide
For we all shall gather to pray

I want to wipe the tears
And say I love
And say I am sorry
Holy Comforter call us into the healing

My sentences run fast and hard and choppy
The train of grief is slow, then fast and then it runs away
Before it slows and stops
And lets the grieving grieve

Heavy
The past that casts a shadow on the
Now
They chose the nighttime to gather and pray
I met my husband in the city
Love lives there too

Let the grieving grieve
And the healing fill the holes
The ones in the flesh and the bones
Of the ones who ache
With the pain of loss

My child
She learns in this city, and my child
She learns in the middle of this
Tangled web we weave
Holy City, hold your hurting

Love lives here too

Lord, have mercy
cross and sheep at chapel of p

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A Few Of My Favorite Things, In One Place – Tweetspeak Poetry

 

Blue Bicycle Books

Well I have to tell you that I fell in love with Charleston.  And I fell in love with my husband, well duh, and it all started in Charleston. So I really do have an incredible love affair with this city. I might love almost everything about it. The way it smells, like a city dipped in salt and sea, drying out on the edge of this Lowcountry region which I call hone. The way it looks, with steeple upon steeple reaching up through the sticky humid air. Always heavenward. The holy city. The homes and gardens which I find myself staring at like a young girl with a high school crush. The little bit of bustle which reminds me of Europe and a Southern New York CIty rolled into one small charming city that feels more like a town.

And poetry. And books. And very old things.  In Charleston. Well put them in a pot of goodness and you have some yummies for my Southern born and bred heart and soul.

Today I am honored to be at Tweetspeak Poetry with a  piece I wrote for their Literary Tour column. Come see what I write about and help keep me company over there.

You are cordially invited. And I promise to roll out a little Southern Hospitality. I might get a little lonely away from my home here. So come visit and leave a comment.

two bikes in charleston

Follow me over there for my words at Tweetspeak Poetry. Click here. Oh you already knew that. Thanks friends.

I am honored and humbled to be with such a warm community. You will like it too if you have never been.

Blue Bicycle Books 2

Bullseye, The Peach, and A Blue Thread : A Trilogy

Bullseye

bullseye bike

You did not miss the mark
The feather-tipped arrow of your release
It did not fail to land
In the right spot, spot on
Perfect imperfection
A bullseyed penetration
Drilling through the target
Seen by eyes of love.

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The Peach

peach 2013

Sitting on the counter
Inviting me
To open up
Summer
rsvp my intent
And begin the ritual
Tradition washes over me with sticky memory
And sweet my taste buds eagerly await
Weigh the choice of
All alone or mixed with cream
Perhaps thrown on a bed of greens
The remembering is the beauty halved
Of the ripe flesh and soft warm skin
I peel back to find the gift and enter in the dance
Peach and I
Our summer can begin
We cannot hurry
Nor can we wait
In blinks and nods and a few short days
September will arrive
And memories of sweet ripe fruit
Will dance alone
Like visions of summers past rolling around in my mind, a dream
Of days in the past
So I must eat a peach
And savor all that is ripe and good
And ready for the picking
These are the days
These are the hours
Of grateful living
Peach and I, I and Peach
Our summer has begun.

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A Blue Thread

modern trouseau charleston

Followed me
Or I followed it
Unknowing
On the way
To Blue Bicycle Books
Everything was shades of blue
Cars behind at red lights
Who knew they made dump trucks
Blue
In front he lead me down Highway 17
And then I crossed the bridge
Under a canopy of blue
With white monstrous clouds waiting to release
Raindrops
And hit the sidewalk like a blue streak
The storefronts presented me with blue
And I wondered if this occurs everday
This theme of beauty
Threads through a day
Some days it is red and others gold
And greens of summer, water’s aqua too
If I would look in front behind and closer
At this one  life
That like the two  young men on the news
Not yet at the age I am
Could end like that
And have it all just stop
Out of the blue.

Beautiful Broken

wisteria cross

Maybe the best way to write of the broken, to tell of the broken, to bleed words of broken, is  in a broken way. And that is all I have any way. Outside of The One Who Makes Things Whole and New. The Great Restorer Of All Broken.

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Why do I miss the beautiful in the broken, when the broken is the beautiful. At first glance I saw a dried flower. Crooked, bent and missing petals. At second glance I saw through a lens of grace and true beauty.

I played and basked in the warm early Spring sun, wrapped in layers of warmth. My body warmed by clothing. My soul warmed by her children. Their creativity and passion for living called out to me. Called out to my needy soul. Their invitations  to enter into a world of imagination were beautiful and trusting. We had never met. But we were lost in the world of playful discovery for two of the happiest hours of my week, this Holy Week. I was renewed, my dry bones in need, by two children who took me from my broken adult world, into their precious world.

My joy came from their contagious child-like joy. To see through the eyes of little ones with their unbridled thirst for twirling and running and dancing. For going as high in the sky as the swing will go. Brave and bold. Their hunger for a story of imaginary brides and their clover bouquets. And eyes that see dirt as a canvas.

I looked at the dried hydranga. And though it is my favorite flower and the one that I long to see bloom in the spring, I missed the beauty upon first glance. And then the artist eyes of Kelly revealed the beauty to me, anew. Fresh. Glorious beauty in the broken. Do you see the transformation from broken to beautiful. The tender way her fingers hold this fragile flower.

How many times must I be shown the beauty in the broken.

He reveals it to me fresh and new, in His patient way. And I am  a child learning  again.

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cross on a wall

I keep returning to this picture taken by a friend, my dearest. I have spent time staring at its broken beauty. The wall is gray, the day was
gray, the one when we stumbled on this wooden cross. But what shines through is the rugged beauty, tilted beauty and simple truth about the cross. Here there is no gold, nor diamonds or even turquoise or silver. Here there is wood, faded and barely hanging on.

There is beautiful broken redemptive love shining through the gray.

And I am learning to see the beauty in the broken. And to seek the broken and find true beauty there.

That is what I am and He loves me in my broken, shattered, imperfect, fragile state. And sees even me as beautiful.

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The new life is seeking to push through the cold dark winter that does not want to end. And daily I am wrapping around the needs of the broken
lives of friend. We pray for each other. Cry out in pain to one another. Please, please pray.

And I write down the names and the list is long. And I read the news and shutter and walk away. At the brokeness. At the pain and despair.

But the beautiful part is that He knows, sees and feels every ounce of my pain and hurt. That my trembling is held in the hands of the Healer. And that He hears the weakest of prayers and the feeblest muttering of my heart as I intercede for my family, friends, and strangers.

We are broken but held, broken but heard, and broken but Loved.

And  I can take it all in my broken strides and my limping gate to an Easter cross where the Savoir arises from the dead and the broken body is made whole.

There is so much glory in the broken.

And I am learning to seek understanding as I  wait for the re-creation of broken to whole.

As I look upon that wondrous cross…

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I see beauty and my heart cries out for Him.

He is making everything Easter new. That news is worthy of loud praises, shouts of Alleluia and twirling and dancing like a child, a child of God. Write it down, in the dirt of the earth. Write it down and remember.

Finally,  I am learning again and again  to see through a lens of His amazing Grace, the beautiful in the broken.

With and through the eyes of a child.
wrecked house boat

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Joining Michelle and Jennifer