The man
Too thin to be real
Standing on the beach
With the sky behind him?
Endless sky
Endless sky
Mirrored in a shallow sea
To have time in your hands
And eternity in your eyes
With the sky behind you?
Standing on the beach
Too thin to be real
man
I stay up too late. I am looking for meaning. I feel like an old woman rummaging through her things, longing for the people attached to them–
Tom’s chair
Ruby’s dress
The people I want back are mostly living. I want them to be braver or more honorable, kinder or stronger.
But they are not. So I rummage
For meaning
For hope
For the person I once was
This is my nightly vigil
My grief.
New blog: Wanton beauty wordpress
Last Sunday night I went to church. Nice church. Comfortable. Friendly. Relaxed atmosphere. Even stayed in the sanctuary for half the sermon. The rest of the time I hung out with the under 5 set in a very nice foyer. It was my best church experience in a long time.
A nice man said they had childcare. There was a moment when I thought about spilling my story.
I don’t leave my kids much because….
Because…
Well, once you realize you trusted a wolf in sheep’s clothing you realize you are a bad detector of sheep costumes
Everyone is except the other wolves.
There is a point in the cycle of loss when people come up for air. The tragedy at the heart of the universe is still there but there is the small hope that words may matter, when so much has been lost.
I tell one child to look up reactive attachment disorder and describe to the other the symptoms of borderline personality disorder.
I am leery of words. How do you describe the damage to a baby or a child of rootlessness and hunger and a world of cold loneliness punctuated by chaos and violence?
I hate what he did to the point of wishing with all my heart that I could unspool his childhood to the day he was born and undo the damage, hold and feed the wee baby to prevent the hours and days and years of pain he will inflict on others.
He has inflicted on us.
Only God can breathe life into the dead.
Splendor
Stretched out for miles
Cupped
In the palm of
Your hand
Like sand in a bottle
Light years
Who can fathom
Light years?
You.
Word made flesh and dwelt among us
Wanton beautiful
If you want
To see the mind of God
Gaze
At the clear night
Sky
Or just
The bubble nebula
Ghost/
Holy Ghost.
I used to write either to process grief, hold onto God, or take pictures with words.
I wrote poetry to hide and survive
Hide the full story
Survive the storm
Or whatever…
When you are 22 you want to be famous and loved
Now I understand better why I write one way or another
Prose is the plodding slow reward of a clean house
Poetry is a fencing match
A race against prose
Say something
Before it is too late
Try writing ordinary things
As poems
A fight with someone you love?
A grocery list
Acknowledges the power
Of the smallest things
We can
Take for granted
The artist was sexually abused by her adopted brother until she was 5.
He will not have to register as a sex offender.
Carrying Light 