Bleeding heart
Dear Bleeding Heart
overflowing with sadness -
set your despair out to dry
in the sunshine.
Make your sadness
malleable like clay.
Make it a necessary sadness
that builds a new place
formed in the toil of working hands.
Then gather from your heart
what remains
and bloom again.
∞
Melting spring song
Snowflakes
drag sound out of the air
as they fall leaving a world
of quiet. Sound freezes
into snow drifts
as color coalesces to white
like a reverse prism.
(light and sound
return to the origin
of simplicity)
In the spring thaw
the snow releases
droplets of rainbow light
as water seeps deep
to awakening roots and
the sleepy chirps
and rustles fly into the air
like robin song
∞
poetry Open Link Night with dVersepoets
From Doing to Being
He said we are human beings
not human doings -
but there’s so many doings these days
a treadmill without end
circling the moon
in its waves
saving myself again and again
When the tides pull back
I can see it -
the bareness of earth
washed clean with the churning and lack
like a birthing
or a respite
calling me, calling me back
Here I find the place:
myself with a moment to be…
I was there all the while
treading to prevail
waiting to trace
a simple circle
that rounds back to me
∞
Poetry linkup with dVerse (prompt: a trip)
Power in the story
Once you’ve survived enough trials, it becomes easier to face a new challenge directly
and bring the dark, musty things into the light.
Arms spread wide to embrace the unknown, knowing you will survive this too.
Knowing in the end you will feel more free and stronger still.
There is beauty in survival.
There is beauty in growing old.
Growing old is the beauty of continuous survival.
A single voice emerges from the distillation of a life.
That is your story, and it has power. Own it.
Bedtime Routine (Sijo poetry)
Bedtime routine
She becomes talkative, resisting sleep with lullabies
With a twitch, her breath deepens, undulating like a rolling sea
I tip-toe out the door, she awakens with a cat’s meow
(I’m unsure if there are format restrictions for Sijo, but I’m tempted to use line breaks)
Bedtime routine
She becomes talkative
resisting sleep
with lullabies
With a twitch
her breath deepens
undulating like a rolling sea
I tip-toe out the door
she awakens
with a cat’s meow
What is Sijo? This is the first I have heard of it, so I will reference the dVerse post describing it. Sijo is a traditional Korean form, with a strong musical component. Sijo is composed in three lines, each line having 14-16 syllables, for a total count of between 44-46 syllables.
I’m not sure if I captured the requirements properly but had fun exploring a new form.
Accepting the role of matriarch
I wonder if the role of matriarch or patriarch in a family ever shifts from one person to another gradually, like a sky changing its expression. My guess is no. New matriarchy and patriarchy are often accompanied by dramatic change: a family member’s passing or otherwise not being able or willing to fulfill the role.
I have come to realize that I am the matriarch of my family at 43 years old. I am the eldest, competent female of my bloodline. I’ve written about this before, but can see that on some level I was still leaving a space for another matriarch – my mother – to fill the role. I had only one foot in. I balanced on the fulcrum. Part of me was waiting for someone else to swoop in and take the reins to guide me. Someone to be my shining light and show me the way. I kept my mother’s things packed as she had left them, although she recently said she no longer wanted them. It really is up to me to tame the wild horses.
Long-time readers know that my mother is mentally ill and unable to care for herself. She’s not the figurehead of the family nor will she ever be. The longer I cling – even subconsciously – to that idea, the longer until I embody the role. The acceptance of a reality can be slow and difficult, but denial is a heavy load to bear.
So I borrowed confidence from another fine matriarch:
African Bush elephant (source: Wikipedia)
Today I unpacked and organized. I set family heirlooms aside for care. I separated family history from the things I will eventually discard. I discarded some of it. I clarified my life. I am the new family historian. I am the figurehead. It doesn’t matter that I feel under-qualified to be the penultimate maternal touchstone. My crown is unsteady but it is mine. Look at me. This is what you get.
I’m only beginning this process and it’s not easy, but I am finally removing the weight of so many unpleasant things that do not belong to me. Sometimes we carry a weight for so long we don’t realize how weary we’ve become until we finally put it down. Time to use the energy for something else. Not surprisingly, it feels empowering and good.
Tree offerings
One of my favorite springtime occurrences is the awakening of trees from their deep slumber. The below are from my twitter timeline. Notice a common theme?
The trees breathe deeply like inverted lungs stretching upward.
Springtime trees have reaching hands, and the hands have thin fingers, and the fingers proudly hold tiny balls of promise.
The trees are in love with each other in Springtime. Their passion is shouted to the world in pollen.
Tiny clouds of green gracefully balanced over elegantly extended on long, woody fingers. The etiquette of spring trees.
Lessons from trees: cherish silence, bask in the Sun, sway in the wind, keep some things private, stand tall.
