The Hunt

seagull egg

My heart was born,

an embryo, a pale and speckled thing;  I

painted it with childish dreams, in rainbow shades of spring.

I thought it was a masterpiece, its shell Venetian glass; I put my gift upon

display, in Easter basket grass. When no one stopped or noticed it, I gazed about

in tears; I noted how the others looked, and painted mine like theirs. But ev’ry layer

colored in just added extra weight; its overburdened, hard-boiled shell soon learned

to hibernate. One day someone gathered it and leaned in for a peep; in his haste he

scrambled it, and tossed it in a heap. Hurt, it hid, and hidden, hurt, and nursed its

deviled thoughts; broken, beaten, in despair, pain fried its yolk in knots. Gentle eyes

began a search, intent upon a quest; Hunter, restless, overlooked the paint-by-number

nests. Gentle hands with kid-glove care collected, cracks and all;  Humpty’s horses’

kingly men had no luck by his wall, but Hunter’s love was kingly glue, and whisked

the shattered shell back into its birthday state, and realigned each cell. Gentle

pressure peeled the paint, revealed its truest shade – Seeker sought and found

his prize, and put it on display. He tells me now he loves me true, though

still my cracks survive; but, incubated by his warmth,

my heart has come alive.

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Great Expectations

foliage

 

The seeds of Great Expectations rooted deep,

but she tasted their fruits not in the fair soil of trinkets

fashioned from sturdy stems,

cabinetry of beauty and elegance

displaying the wares of Kings,

nor in the expression of the printed page,

pouring forth speech from pulpy loins.

Less still the warmth of a billion fires,

songs of a billion kettles

as her fuel gave Man comfort from the endless darkness.

It came, not in the power and might

of the straight-rimmed arrow’s shaft

or the machinations of the torture room,

but in the beautiful irony of Life –

the abandonment of her burdens,

 bouquet of ultimate surrender.

Here, where she came to terms with her brokenness,

her truest beauty harvested

Great Expectations.

Her Eyes

gaping window

 

Her smile lifts her lips in all

the expected places, her

laughter chimes harmony at

appropriate pauses. But

her eyes – her eyes are empty

windows, unshuttered channels

to the brokenness within,

where the lights are never on,

and no one is ever home.

 

 

 

 

Broken…

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

Meanwhile, Melody Muses...

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?

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Bleeding Heart

Bleeding Hearts salvia

If my embrace could stop your bleed,

or smoothing brow make pain recede,

my love would ride, a great white steed,

to mend your bleeding heart.

But my heart bleeds, my soul is bent,

my broken parts sing like lament,

so humbly, trembling, I present

my fragile, shattered part.

If we who, fractured though we are,

combine our fragments,  name our scars,

embrace the cracks in ruptured jars,

could we be living art?

*

The snowstorm today made driving (and photography) a bit of a challenge.   So – how about some colour from last year instead??  🙂  “…treasures in jars of clay…”

A Higher Road

snowlog.jpg

He thought his shoulders were strong and broad

til troubles came to call;

Like flurries, problems mounted up,

and made his strength feel small.

Rocked to his heels, and then his knees,

he bent beneath the load –

and found that in the broken place,

he found a higher road.