Standing At The Sink

wpid-20140212_145037.jpgStanding At The Sink

If you find me staring through the pane
Fuzzy, focusing on things
That aren’t right here
Far away I seem to you
Wandering out
back in again
Lost in thought inside my head
Making art and hearing holy whispers to press ahead
Bubbles resting in the kitchen sink
It is not the labor that you think
Upon first glance,
upon a second glance
You’ll see
Breathing rapid at the chance

To go chase Robins in my dreams
Daily washing worry down the metal
Drain
Choosing to find beauty in the ash
He bowed
Wrestled something from the soil
Hope, I think, was birthed on my front lawn

He landed there in front of me
As I stood steeped in worry at my sink
The birds transformed me into
Something holy new

Now I am rusty breasted in my dreams
Wings will take me far from here
I can join the Robins and
Go places in my mind
Disappear, fly somewhere other
Than leaning on the dirty sink

Every anxious thought
So filled with fear
Is floating in a sea
Made of foamy bubbles laced with dirt
I am a vessel
Propped up, leaning on the counter
Trying not to
Sink

Even the drain does not want
To take from me
This toxic waste

And if you see me resting in the rocking chair

Here but not, a countenance
Filled with worry and concern

I am not resting, idle though it seems
I have run away, escaping to my
Dreams
Asked them to carry me
Someplace other than right now, right here

The words give solace
Comfort
And remove me from
A place of tears

Now I have joined the Robins
Dancing on a sea of brown
They’ve brought
A story laced with hope

My soul
Is grateful for a flock of orange breasted birds
Content when digging
In the wormy dirt.
And I am back now
Washing dishes in the sink.

Holes

wpid-IMG_20130814_180820.jpgOne day
We will look back on all of this
Holy mackerel
Every dog
Has his
One at a time
Daily grind
Deep breathes
In and out
One day soon, in glory
We’ll sing and shout
Without
Worry or fear
We’ll live
Around the corner
Holds a new beginning
Healing souls
Holes in the walls of my heart
Had you known then
What you did not
Know, now
How could you have
Hindsight
It’s easy for you to say
Sheltered by ignorance
Blissfully guarded
Armchair quarterbacking
You could have would have
Bought and sold stock in
Kleenex
What’s next, you
Cried you a river
Stayed way ahead of the pain curve
And in the end you
Start all over again
Mercifully
Saved by grace
Laugh lines
Replacing
Worry lines
And a  softer shade
Of grays
Holes in the knees of my jeans.

wpid-IMG_20130814_185735.jpg

The Vigil

come unto me

She swears the color yellow soothes a soul
So you will  find her staring at the garden
Fixed gaze on the yellowest flower there
In the yard
She guards
Her heart
Holding vigil over one who gives her labor pains
Though eighteen years have passed since birth
Holding hope for one
Who birthed her too
Traumatized by screams of pain
She is ripped in two
She finds the field of yellow calms her nerves
Between her shifting gaze she lays it down
And takes it up again, her sinful self desires to stir the pot
She rakes the coals, red hot
Searing
Bloody
Mad when stirred
Hotter when  she pokes the fire
Fear finds fuel in oxygen of snuffed out hope
So she’ll return to yellow on her color wheel
Where quiet and calm soothe her aching soul
Now she knows how He must feel
Father of a million times a million times a million, no more
And lover of as many souls
She will pick a single yellow stem
And give it all to Him
The Perfecter of Her Faith
The One Who Never Sleeps Nor Rests
She lays the flower down
She’ll rest
Reciting: Goldfinch, Monarch, Black-eyed Susans
Over in her dreams
Calmed by yellow memories and hum
It is well with my soul
For He has got her back, cradled in His arms
She wears the title
Mother, Daughter, but
No longer
Tender of a  flame that burns
Her heart consumed by fear.

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Joining Jennifer Dukes Lee for #tellhisstory

The Blackbird, Checking Through The Pane

red winged blackbird

                                                                                                   (photo credit:wikipedia/wikicommons)

If there were a list of rules for who can visit,
A book of names to let some enter into
Communion on the ledge

By virtue of his title
He’d be turned away.

But when it’s quiet
And thought has pulled me deep,
Where worry debates with faith and reason
Yanking tiresome
Pulling piece by ragged piece,
In the dusty corners where the deep grooved tracks from a  childhood
Play.
He comes alone, staring deep within my soul
Feathers meet a feeble friend.
I’ve begun to wait for him.

He sings a shrill of flats or is it sharps.
Tilts his head
I don’t know which, or what he says.
Peers through glass at me then folds a caring nod
As if the feathered feeder friend

Sings his song for me.
Alone.
There is no space for other songbirds when he comes.
His birdsong gurgles, sucks up all the space and time
With a melody of winsome caring,
checking through the pane.

Ebony and streaks of red ask
“Have you found at last your peace on matters on your mind.”