---

∴

the more i get to know people,
the more i’m aware of all the hurt we carry.

hurts are all different sizes and shapes and colors
and they impose different weights.

maybe we lighten their loads for just a while
when we explain them
or say them out loud to others.

it’s as if taking them out
of our hidden selves
and into the light
melts them a little,
like layers of ice in the sun.

even cliffs and glaciers crumble.

what’s more,
they melt faster when they’re
broken into bits.

·

sometimes,
when someone is telling me their hurt
i play this secret game:

while they speak,
i collect every hurt that comes out
like catching icebergs
in a bowl,

then i take all the heat that lives inside me,
like love,
and ignite myself.

should i cry,
my tears pour like lava.

should i laugh,
my voice spills like sunshine.

should i remain silent,
my witness becomes a hearth.

and the bowl of ice
turns to water
that we could both drink
and be nourished by.

∴

 

 

 

---

 

---

∴

o, there is a voice on the wind.

is it you?
is it you?

what would you have me do?

to what end
should my heart leap from its home
and out
into the wild

to find you?

·

o, there is a turn in my step

as you move
yes, you move

me.

such a hold is this
that while i spin
you cage and steady,
your arms at the ready,
to straighten and still me
again.

·

o, there is a hope in my heart

and no earthly promise
has put it there.

no fleshy example could.

do i wait?
yes, i wait.

 

and for how long, my love?

how long?

∴

 

 

 

---

 

∴

there are some resources
that are infinite in human nature.

you cannot run out

no matter how much
you use
or give
or misplace them
in the “wrong” depository:

 

patience

(even though we keep saying we’re out of it.)

 

kindness

(though we too often wait to get it
before we give it freely.)

 

understanding

(it is a deep well,
though we rest on its plateaus
and think we’ve hit bottom.)

 

love

(you can keep on giving it and,
like a womb,
it widens and stretches
and grows living things.)

 

but there are other resources that are finite,

 

like time.

 

there is only so much of that.

in our days

in our weeks

in our years

in our life

in Our Life

·

for my part,
i think i’d be a happier person
if i spent more time
giving my infinite resources
so freely
that the finite
felt more free.

∴

 

---

 

---

∴

some days are longer than they should be.
some roads are steeper than we’d planned.
and all of them,
are ours, alone, to lose or to command.

and i know,
i know.

i should be stronger.

i know,
i know.

i should know better.

and i know,
i know.

i’ll keep on. i’ll keep on…

 

but the balm that is a friend makes it all so much pleasanter.

flooded ditches are the wading pools
in which we kick our feet.

all our heart we’ve hammered on
becomes our jigging beat.

collect our tears in pale blue pints
and raise them high with songs of might

and drink long into camaraderie.

we face the future by sharing past days,
and laugh when the silence is loud,
cry when the hurts are a safe enough distance away,
and ask the dumbest questions,
and give the wisest of answers

though we have none,

really,

to give.

 

you reviving salve,
i give thanks.

in our commonest exchange
i am reheartened

and glad.

∴

 

 

---

---

∴

mustard seeds

and little deeds

can be the largest of morsels to sustain

the strength of a tundra soul

without green

and without rain.

 

o how do i till this rock?

am i so hardened with age?

did you not make me soft and fertile?

and what sun did i plant myself under

to scorch myself so?

 

bloom a bud on a petrified branch

and all the sweeter shall it scent.

 

break the ice

to bless the waters

to drown the sorrows

that life has lent.

 

and give me mustard seeds

that i might love again

through little deeds.

∴

 

 

---

---

∴

is the road to perdition so sweetly lined
i’d delight in the roses en route to demise?

why so cobbled are these stones?
i thought i rode the road to home…

but alas, i learn,

it is a lazy traveler that trusts the path
and does not keep his staff
nor align his compass to the stars
and his hour to the sun.

for all these lights
were meant to guide us.
they migrate courses deep inside us.

·

o, look up and off this pebbled trail,

it pocks and sores our eyes in,
it endless clocks, without horizon.

look up and see
trajectory
and where our steps are leading

for the time we have to travel

is nothing,

if not fleeting.

∴

 

---

 

---

∴

get up
get up
get up
you shall not linger longer,

the air you breathe
in solitude
makes isolation stronger.

there’s light outside
and hope resides
but you must move to find it.

go hold the hands
that’d hold you,
forgive the hands
that scold you.

pause long enough to gain your strength
but do not give indulgence length

for roots drink deep defeat.

gravity will let up
once you decide to get up

and tomorrow, bravely greet.

∴

 

 

 

---

 

---

∴

stack them,

fuse them,

deftly use them

 

to build,

to boundary,

to lock in our foundry,

 

wherein we might take shape.

 

but heed and take warning

‘gainst the walls we’re adorning

with righteous decoration.

 

though swiftly cast,

they fixedly last,

and impose our habitation.

 

as patterns in mortar the soul can transfix,

be wary of living in the stillness of bricks.

∴

 

 

 

---

 

---

 

∴

 

it is here i keep my riches,

it is here i store my gifts,

within i sorrows bury,

withal rogation lifts.

 

my beats may fade and temper

like flashes in a storm

and malformations camouflage

the substance of my form

 

but attack and alteration

will never break apart

the treasury and endlessness

of things kept in a heart.

 

∴

 

 

 

---