A crutch for your foot,

A cane for your knee,

I’ll sign your cast for your neighbours to see.

A mechanized chair

And a ramp for your door,

A tablet to take when your muscles are sore.

A stick when you’re blind

And an aid for your ear,

Glasses and lenses when vision’s unclear.

A band-aid for blood

And a note on your chart –

But what do I do when the hole’s in my heart?

Image came from here.

18 comments on “Broken…

  1. kris landt says:

    ah…this is where perspective is of paramount importance. for instance, we say “my bones grow” instead of acknowledging that “i grow my own bones.” time doesn’t heal our wounds, only we can. melody, i love your poems!!! so heartfelt…

  2. Sci-Fi Gene says:

    This is heartfelt and also reminded me of one of my favourite Bob Dylan songs

    “..Broken dishes broken parts
    Streets are filled with broken hearts
    Broken words never meant to be spoken
    Everything is broken…”

  3. Kasia says:

    That’s always a problem, how to sew a hurt heart together…

  4. Reminds me of lines from Rudyard Kipling’s “If”:
    “… or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
    and stoop and build them up again
    with worn out tools…”

    Meaning, one can always mend and amend anything broken.
    Thanks for this post. 😉

    • melodylowes says:

      Yes, you’re so right – ‘broken’ can be mended. A difficult and arduous process – but well worth the effort! Thank you for your wise words.

  5. melodylowes says:

    Reblogged this on Meanwhile, Melody Muses… and commented:

    These are some thoughts from a year ago today, continuing my anniversary tour. It’s interesting to look back on what on my heart at a different time, different place…

  6. Caddo-Jael says:

    This is really powerful, Mel–I love it!

  7. Eric says:

    “Love Held”

    The most fickle of fates
    is love held deep in heart;
    one day it the will breaks,
    next to join two limp parts
    strong together as one,
    the next throws asunder
    all the stars and the sun.
    Still next fills with wonder
    when a baby is born.
    Though faint love may be, still
    it springs to life, lone dot
    within whimpered wail’s will,
    starting chilled, ending hot.
    Poised indiscriminate,
    untamed flame, fire that dies,
    coldly compassionate,
    love that in all men lies.


  8. Pam says:

    I love your poem. To respond, I refer you to Mary Oliver’s, Mornings at Blackwater, where she ends her thoughts on how to live with the past in this way:

    …put your lips to the world.
    And live,
    your life.

  9. RoSy says:

    Poor heart – I think it may be a part that never heals completely once it’s broken.

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