Your deceptive claws, |
To, for, inspired by and because of my wife ... I see you
and you see me and Like darkened drips of glass dropping singly into the stilled waters of my now you collide with me. This moment serene unseen before now but felt and fully lived now; I know you. You know me. Out and into my life your single drop of liquid glass Sends its ripple into my now, out to my yesterdays and forward into my ever and yet-to-be's. Does anyone else feel the ripple? I feel it and it is most satisfying. You and your love. Sit quietly now
and still and well Loosely you'll hold to the things that hold you tightly. Your rigidity is both a formidable enemy and a strong armour, protecting, always it protects. And it is rigid. Your rigidity constricts It is this that invokes your anxiety And your hope of a better day, thwarted, this, too, is evocative of pain, of anxious symptoms manifest. What is going on?!?
Lost, I am lost, like that fabled ring in the cave and now I am the one looking for me, and I find only blackened rock and roughened finger-destroyers. It seems the more I look, the more displaced I become and I really don't find solace in much. Lost! Like the wandering soul unhoused, my morbid transparency sings an unending dirge, like a pavane for a dead princess, unsung but lived on. There is no moment of great clarity here and no certain hope for a brighter day. My sight -- I see but a dim, muddy picture in my future. It's brown, grey and uncertain -- thick, tough to wade through and no certain path does it bare laid underfoot. Oh, hungry light! I would that you will manifest your glorious purity and shine away all the muck that obscures the steps and the hope for my journey. Delightful mercy. Come to my vision once again! Dispell the murky lies and uncertain ways I'm to tread. I do not like these highlands and I dread the fens and moors of my destiny. Embark upon my soul, dear Lord, and breathe with your breath once again a way that I can go, for I am lost. Viscera's just another name for the organs we each have inside of us. I wrote a trilogy of poems describing three different organs and how they make me feel right now. HeartHere's my heart before you
a small token, a coin cold, tiny, shiny, Not really much use. The black tar oozes eeks from within to without Forming an unformed mass. I call it emotion. Sticking to my soul Stuck to my soul Layers of thickened, blackened goop gone hard. My heart cannot beat as loud as once it did as strong nor as easily. Cold, worn down and squashed flat. Flat, thin, and faint its beating Barely a whisper Barely a token of life. |
AuthorStuart McDonald is a husband, father and exercise physiologist. And a lover of words, stories, music and healing. Archives
February 2016
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