Category Archives: Poetry

Lasting Words

Fear is a feeling you wish
you did not have to feel
your suffering
is a hard fact
(you suffered – 
you cannot change that)

You wish you could change
the “what was” and erase
the hopelessness, worthlessness
of that dark place;
wish that your story could somehow be shaped
with an alternate slant

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Hidden Signs

In seeking always for a concrete sign,
you watch the sky expectantly – with stars,
prophetic moons and meteors in mind.
You wait for words descending from afar
to tell you where to go and at what hour
you should begin. But night does not reveal
divine intent. The clouds obscure its power
and when the stars appear they all are sealed.
They ought to tell you: Look towards the earth,
where little stones and shrivelled petals lie,
where life in its perpetual small birth
lives simply and is not afraid to die.
Be not in search of grandeur or in haste
to know the whole. But be content with grace

(The giver never has a thought of waste)

The Mother’s Prayer

On days, on days like these I gaze
Upon the face where only beauty dwells
I cannot tell
Of darkness, there is only light
Inside these eyes and in my own
My heart will break, my heart will break
And would that you would never be alone
Now and at the hour when you will wake
And see the world the way I see
For love of you
Your eyes and all the truth they speak to mine
The rippled blue reflection of
a thought divine
My heart will break, my heart will break
And love like this so pure it can erase
The sorrow so long carried in this soul
And give a glimpse of nameless, boundless joy
For now we see in part but then
For love of you
We will see face to face
As I now gaze
Upon the eyes that shine up back to mine

Broken Parts

I want to see the world in broken parts:
These pieces only seem a wholeness when
a mind (which fears the mystical) is bent
on neat abstractions. Oh, to have a heart
that loves the littleness instead! A hand
to hold the pieces – pure as incomplete;
to see in brokenness an unknown plan,
in fragmentation joy and not defeat;
a peace to love small things in idleness
without the lusting drive to seize, convert
and mould mysterious things to my own shape;
to be content with glimpses, and to rest
in half-veiled truths – though unexplained, not less

Hushed Suffering

The sirens all are silent from up here
and suffering is hushed, though present still.
She searches for that strange elusive place
where rest can greet unrest and peace can fill

the parched and empty spaces of the soul,
and slow the frenzied pulsing of her thoughts
(the mind can have a heartbeat of its own –
in overstraining anxiously, will clot).

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