Unmerciful mercy

That is what I bring to the tables.                                                                

Laden with bread and wine.
I bring my tears to fall upon  baskets of fruit.  

Fruit bruised and broken and withered on the vine.

Falling upon the ground which is laced with ashes and Dust.

A Silver tree in winter,

a  rotten apple in fall,

a muddy puddle in summer,

an empty blossom in spring.

What can I give to this king?

This gent who has so mercifully forgiven me.

and yet I so unwillingly exhaust at this feet.

Afraid to wash.

Fear of splattering.

Of being seen.

I hide in the shadow of the grace of the dawn.

Unwilling to greet another encounter with joy.

Rather to extend  another hand of sorrow.

Heading nowhere.

The paths which lay before me I am unwilling to see.

Or do I see them?

If I look closely enough over the faint horizon, I see them appear.

A bit of a Glimmer.

A shine.

A quake upon the rising.
A new day has dawned.

New laughter.
New hope.

Oh blessed be the day when I can awaken with shouts of joy.

Not contemplation

Just a quick thought

And a quick awakening.

 Cleansing to the soul.

I will glean from Mother Earth.

I will refresh  my doorstep.

I shall welcome those who call upon the name and those who fear to tread.

I shall welcome those who don't, who won't.
The name which shall never be spoken, yet should always be spoken.

I shall shout from the rooftops.

I am here.

And I shall approach this season with gladness.
 Oh blessed be the day!

Sacred Space

A reminder to enjoy life and all that is sacred.

As we meet the places between heaven and earth,

And hear the sweet melodic cry of the saints.

Foretelling us of an after-life so simplistic so clear.

To be present in the here and now.

To feel each glimpse of love that crosses our path.

To close our eyes and take in the beauty of all that lies around us.

A sacred stone not sacrilege to the touch.

Rather warm to the heart, as it renders to the day of old saints, their cloister,

Their kept secrets. 

Sacrificing the pieces that once belonged to them, or perhaps never belonged to them,

But to the Master.

The man who lies in mystery from the beginning of time.  

The one who gives gifts, yet so many are afraid.

Pronouncing Novenas saying Hail Marys, rubbing rosaries….

To wherein lies the answers.

Humanity’s bold attempt to call on the here-after.

There must be a way.  Not so hidden, so latent, so restrained within.

And yet where is it?

 Where is the Jesus of the two loaves and five fishes?

Wrapped in stories and words, man’s interpretation, literal or not.

The child-like faith embracing tomorrow,

Robes of many colors and a flooded  planet, only to be rescued by a dove.

Where would I be?  Would I be Jonah…so terrifyingly afraid to listen to the message?

To prophesy in the name of God.

To refuse to go to other lands.. 

Would I be cast into the water?

Overthrown.  Cold. Wet.  Lying there like a fish.

Encompassed by the loving hand of Yahweh within a great mouth…

Yet today our land is crying out.

We are desperate for the little boy to share his lunch.

For the widow’s mite.

For the scarlet grace.

Water from a well.

As we lay dying, withered, dehydrated, a branch losing it’s moisture.

Broken. Twisted. Snapping. Incomplete.

O come and rescue me children.

Let me see your light. 

Let me see your beauty.

Let me believe in your words…..

Red Yellow Black and White

All are precious in His sight.

Appointment

It's a crazy mad dash to the scullery.

A race against the clock.

Tick Tock Tick Tock! 

Why do I so begrudgingly wait?

And for what?

One more primp at the hourglass.

Oh I wish the glass would shatter!

Beautiful  wavy curls, alabaster face, porcelain.
Not seen by the contorted mirror.

So once again she primps and primps and primps.

Why can't she be comfortable in her own skin?

And how does one woman transfer that to another?

It's all about attitude,  How we walk and carry ourselves.

That is beauty.  Beneath the skin. Skin deep.

Frantic and rushing. All in the name of humanity.

Cram down last eve's fragment of chocolate pie.  Enough to get through another morn.

The room awaits.  Sad.  Disheveled.  Unkempt.

Wanting to cry out ...Notice me!  Someone please.

The sink laden with hairs...cut, cut, cut.

Not quite perfect enough.

And so the trimming begins.

These are primitive years.

Logically I know that...and yet I fester.

And worry and wait.

Pendulum swinging and swinging, but not in my direction.

Another compass, pointing west.  Certainly not north.

Engine running...hurry, scurry, panic, rush, I'm late.

I make my deposit...within seconds...she arrives just in time.

On the detour back, I see him along the road, amongst the traffic.

Not much thought in the world. Untied and flowing hair.

Not even a care.

Walking ever so slowly, no need for brisk.

Eyes straight ahead.

Persistent and flowing.

Step by step.

And I wonder

Why can't I peruse and ponder and relish?

Soon enough another bus will arrive.

Another scullery, another class.

Why so fast?

Teach me to follow the rhythm of the one who takes life step by step  by step.

Not a care in the world, as the traffic keeps passing by....

This Rose Remains

Dry and brittle

Delicate in its withered beauty.

A sheer scarlet.

Reaching out to touch the weary traveler.

Thorns enclosed.

One should stop to seek its wisdom.

That of a hundred petals...this one shall remain.

Not touched by the human hand...but of a silver whisper.

Hidden in the linings of the wind.

A mystery not yet foretold.

Why one so cold and cruel and calculating would take one so innocent?!

A  precious flower in all her  translucent shine.

The answers lie not in the forgotten hand.

Nor in the tears of the called placed nearby.

The struggles will never be understood this side of the great divide.

Silently the universe will whisper the beckoning wishes of all those who go forth.

To which one shall bring a fragment of her charm and wit.

Nary does one dare touch the thorn which extends.

Rather to ignore and return to the existential.

The part that remains to be seen.

A gentle golden child in all her fragrance and mist.

The rose  laid upon the crystals of ice shall remain. 

Old Man Winter

Cold foreboding fingers encase me.
The gray surrounds once again.
Fingers bitten to the bone.
No thaw awaits.
Enclosed in the rapture, the capture of old man winter.
He beckons us to drone on...and on.
Frost no rest for the weary.
The body aches and moans.
Brittle to the very end.
Shall I survive?
Shall I quake?
Shall I quiver and wither or break?
I cannot.
I shall not.
My face is broken and swept with tears.
And fears.
Brought on by the pixie moon.
Encaptured in dust.
A magical golden aura.
Shall it bring beauty or pain?
Loss or Gain?
Silently I hear his cackle, his gackle.
Rambling on.
Approaching with sinister laughter.
Knowing that young lovers await.
Their hands entwined.
Countenance sublime.
Brutally he laughs at the greater days to come.
Working endlessly to entrance others to his gain.
His pain.
If he could only convince others to stay in his grasp, his clasp.
These cold brittle dry days will last and last and last.

My Angst Has Died

My Angst Has Died

It lies somewhere in the snow, adrift upon the cascading mounds.

Crystallized upon the surface.

Climbing ever so higher toward the atmosphere. 

Dissipating into fine powder.

Lost in the mind.

It yearns of warm climates, bursts of sunshine, no footsteps upon the paved areas. 

It wants to be cared for, caressed, not cluttered, not fallen, not fine.

Dawns of solitude, “enough,”,it cries, “enough! ”

Look beyond the superficial.  Look beyond the layers.  Climb deep within my skin.  Feel the trembling heat. Burning. Yearning.

Not yielding, not wanting these days of old, of slipped bygones. 

Forgotten songs, immersed and buried in the snow.

Somewhere in the mounds. Fine white cold powder dust.

Awakening

Withered worn and weary.
This man's words have cut through my heart like a knife.
Searing the chambers.
Burning flesh.
And yet I go back for more.
Turning to the one who is wicked, who is cutting through my soul.
Yet I yearn for more.
And more and more.
Raised to believe in myself, my God.
To be complete, an alive and awakening woman.
What is it that makes one turn to this frivolity, this abuse?
It lingers and remains as long as I allow.
The sadness becomes welcoming.
A bit of bread, fragmented dreams, a fitful sleep...have become my carriage.
Learning to exist on the mere beauty of kind words.
Feeding me.
Beckoning me to come forward, to drink from the fruit of the vine.
What is it about the darkness that is so enticing?
That I come to drink from the fountain of seeping rotten soliloquies
As it wretches through my being.
A cough sputtering forth of purging and phlegm.
Why can't I accept the truths which lie before me?
"God is great, God is good, let us thank him for our food."
My mind races back to my childhood of reciting the prayers,
instead of the mad raving texts, which flood my brain.
"You are no good, you are worthless."
And on and on and on...
Its noise is deafening, so reprehensible, so hurtful, yet soothing.
I taste the sweet nougat of the dichotomy of my inner walls.
Which beat within.
The heart attempting to heal oneself. To shut out the world of its lies.
Best to stay within the shelter of the winter garden, the sacred blinding white.
To run from the calling of the lion, my great protector.
I will weather this storm. I will choose not to return to my regurgitation.
And when I choose to withstand I will remain.
Transfixed within the storm.
Swirling about me .
Amidst the dust.
Peace shall be found in the center of all that was and ever shall be real.
"God is great, God is good, let us thank him for our food."

Conglomerate Shuffle...Let The Pieces Fall Where They May

Cubicles, crisp, bland and white.

A melding together.  Transformation.  Unisexually.  Trangenderish. As one.

No opinions.  No power.  Beliefs transfixed in the brain.

Never to be beckoned. 

Safely tucked away.

Politically diversely correct.

One dare not challenge.

 

A goes here.  B goes there, nevermind about C.  A number.  A mere 1984.

Orwellian.  And so we go on.  The mutation occurs.  Xanax.  Paxil.  On and on.

Beard to goatees to jeans and sneakers. Anxiety and depression abound.

Psychiatric doctoral dream.  Stress is in the air!

Privacy nonexistent.  All is known.  You Tube thrives within the goldfish bowl..

Shattered positions everywhere!

The corporate smiles. The corporate stares. The pasted grin.

Let’s do the shuffle.  A meets B.  B meets C.  Whatever happened to D?!

Ah yes here’s your gold star…stick it on your lapel. 

And dance.  The steel concrete sanctioned dance.

But not across the cubes.

Dance within.  Times New Roman. Number 12.

The Almighty hand.  The good hand.

Let it not smother you as it’s grip encloses. Blue and white.

Be aware.  Never dance without protection.

Eagle eyes are necessary.

Be as sleek as the wolves.

Share your genius.  Unbeknownst.  Unrecognized.

Time to move on. 

Another shuffle. Shuttle is arriving.  So long E .

Brevity

Brevity

A glimpse of vapor

Watching dandelion wisps taken by the wind

To another place, another time.

A day is like that of a thousand years

Eternally timeless.

Ahh but to learn of wisdom in the shortness of life…

The breath taken so suddenly,

His Sovereignty at its Best.

Reminding one to live each day as the last.

Never knowing where the four corners of the wind will take one

And whenst it should arrive…

Embracing the plan of no earthly tomorrow. 

Cute Socks Weasels and Wilma

The spark of imagination.

A child’s cry, laughter in the midst of pain. Misery, yet humor.

Callous and jovial amongst each other.  Whimsical.  A scurry of joy.

Stone age, trendy, fearful.

A guttural laugh cuts into the darkness, remembering wanting the days of young.  Of frilly toes and soft skin.  A coiffed appearance. 

A stiff hairdo, precision,perfectly in place.  Attentive, succumbing to one’s needs.  Without asking.  Being there.

What is it that turns us on to the days of youth? Beyond wisdom.

Beyond faith.  Furry yet slyly a coward.  Wanting to move forth.

Wanting to remain. 

Amongst the cold. Amongst the stagnant.  Always having the answer and not knowing.  A step among mankind.

Celebration, candles and balloons.  A reminder of one’s entrance.  One’s passing. 

The road of tomorrows.  Venturing ever so squeamishly.  Past the laughter, the spark, the intimacy of yesterday. 

Through The Looking Glass

Life brings us detours, a burrowing through the soils and sands of time and memories.

If one could be Alice would they peer through, or avoid the dimension altogether?

If time were of the essence of yesterday being today, would we live our lives differently, or continue on the same mad rampage? 

The quest, the detours, the tunneling through....the questions...ahhh yes the questions still remain.

The future leery at best , would one laugh at the days to come?

Or would they wait in silent agony as another day thickens, the passing of the sunrise?

Why is it we fear the lurking in the midst, the shadows we don't see?

What have we to gain when we choose to abstain?

Another writing of the will, strong, weathered, not forgotten, the hands of time.

Click nearly half a century later. Click Click Click...

HOW CAN ONE MAKE IT STOP?

The withered hands of the clock.

TICK TOCK TICK TOCK!

Are the dark days behind us as we enter into the light?

Perhaps it was just a dream and we are just beginning.

The softening of jazz playing in the background.

Baking chocolate chip cookies.

Forfeit not loss if we shall choose to gain..

Remain be still and know that I am He.

He who will walk you through the dark tunnels.  The leery midsts.  The weary shadows.

Never shall I leave, never shall I forsake.

My hand will gently guide you and I shall remain.

All that ever was and all that will ever be.

I shall be He.

He who will hold your hand when it is weathering and shriveling in to the gust.

The silver glimmer dust will never leave.

It shall be a part of who you breathe, who you choose to remain to be. 

"Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death....

Prancing about in the snow, not a care remains.

Learn when life's weary breath gets in the way.

Of who and whom you were meant to be. 

The sweet simplistic dance in the snow.  The silent covering of the pureness of essence.

Laughter and kind embraces.

Nary a word.  Your sunrise your sunset. Children at play. The serenity of dawn. 

Where is my rabbit? My guide?

Shall I wallow into a world of hallucinations and daydreams, or do I gently place my feet upon the soil?

The trodden soils.

Laced with tears and fears.

Doubts and hopes.

Challenges and triumphs. 

Burrowing through the tunnels.

The tunnels of time.

"Twas brillig and the slimy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe...

All mimsy were the borogroves and the mome raths outgrabe..."

The Author's Voice-January 2011

Hello...yes it is actually me the writer of this blog.  I've decided that once in a blue moon I would speak for the blog, in order for it to be more conversational and real in nature.  I've done my research on blogs and I will continue to stay aloof, a bit more distant and private than others, and continue to post my writings, or poems.  Many people in the blogging world express an interest in writing poetry...but they are not putting their work out there in the blogosphere. I've chosen to take a bit of a risk and be different.  I will also keep my blog template simple so you can get right to the heart of the writing.

I am inspired by various things, people, movies, books, songs, fantasy, spirituality, and quite honestly just the ordinary everyday life stuff.  Like any other writer I will struggle with writer's block at times. So if my blog is quiet for awhile, most likely life is extremely busy or I am dealing with the infamous writer's block.

  Now I would like to hear from you my readers.  I believe there are a few more out there based on the number of my page views and I know some of you are choosing to follow me privately, which I encourage as well.... Feel free to let me know what you would like me to write about, and I will give my artistic wings a stretch and try....And for now I will part with this blue moon and wish you a fair morn and a fond adieu.  

Alterations

The rhythms of life can be altered in an instant.

Heart rendering pangs.

Lifeless, cold, still, and solemn.

Suspended in space.

Calculating, decisions, judgment and reasoning.

Abstractions reaching out to encapsulate us, entwined within our bodies.

Making sense of “nothingness.”

A mesomorphic mass.

Moments to absorb.

Shaping, refining and sculpting into “somethingness.”

Casting away fear, doubt and anxiety.

Relying on the blank white space.

Our easel, changing into pastels, adding a splash of color..

Reflecting the light of our Maker and our solitary prisms.

An artist at work.

Portfolios created.

Masterpieces in the making.

Processing the finite.

Never giving up.

Realizing the best days lie not behind us.

But before us.

“There but for the grace of God go I.”