On the Fence

sitting-on-the-fence

To be, or even not to be,

That is not the question;

But what to do with every day,

With all in my possession.

It isn’t where I land that counts,

But how I make each stride;

It’s less what I accumulate

Than what I’m like inside.

 

 

 

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The Star Inside

mallow star

 

She cradles her weakness deep,

tenderly touching places

that crisply curl past their prime;

she treasures bent blooms, broken

foliage. When petals lose

their sheen, her soul stirs, shouting

joy in exuberant notes,

song of the ancients who learned

secrets from secret sorrows.

To such spirits as hers, pain

is welcomed as Mentor, friend

whose sage presence sears blossoms

but harvests seeds. Thankful

heart, this, whose troubles have stripped

away the peripheral,

baubles which blocked her brilliance,

kept her from being a star.

 

 

Grieving


You’ve wept until your eyes are puffed

In turtle-shell disguise,

Your face is red, your cheeks are stained

With tears that trace your cries.

You hang your head as sorrow deep

Weighs your visage down;

You’ve cried heart dry so many times,

It weeps without a sound.

But you don’t see that in your grief

Your blooms are opening wide;

Rich beauty lies within your pain,

Allurement which can’t hide.

And as you grieve, the Master of

Your heart is drawing near;

He wipes your eyes, and as you cry,

True beauty washes clear.