In the Middle of the Mud

mud

I spent years at the edge.

I paraded with my picket sign

to demonstrate my disdain for the dregs,

lobbied for others to clean up their act,

slung my share of dirt

in the hopes that none of it would come home to me.

I washed my hands of it.

But you –

you put on your rubber boots

and slogged into the middle of your mess

and made mud pies.

You got up to your elbows in it

and your laughter sang

and your eyes widened at the wonder of it all

and I dared to hope

that maybe here,

in the middle of the mud,

there might be something real.

Something that smelled of soil

and germination,

rain and sunshine woven

into a thing of beauty.

Your laughter is gone, now –

but I bought a new pair of boots

and I’m hungry.

I’m hungry for

mud pies…

Hide and Seek

hide and seek

I quit.

I don’t like this game.

I never win.

I can’t find you anywhere,

but somehow you always find me.

Even when I hide

you find a way to uncover me;

if I bury myself in busyness

or hole up on facebook,

medicate with chocolate

or embalm my memories,

there you are.

Even when I sleep, you find me,

disguised as men with guns who somehow

(despite my dreamland skill)

always know exactly where I am.

And then you leave,

 with only your salty-wet footprints

on my cheeks to mark your exit.

This hide thing

doesn’t work for me.

So

I will change the rules.

I’ll make a hot cup of tea

and sit in my prayer chair

and count to ten

slow

and

I may

just

learn to truly seek.

I will seek you in

the sigh of a child,

peals of laughter,

every act of courage,

every selfless prayer.

I will learn to love well,

listen with my heart,

speak for those with no voice,

champion the weak,

embrace my mess

and

then,

then I will

seek this God

whom you loved with abandon,

with faith that could not be broken

by accident or

miscarriage

or tumours

or physical agony

and then,

there,

(ready or not)

I will

find you…

Released

ladysslipperbabysteps.jpg

Released from the tomb, from the Winter which froze you,

Freed from the Dark, from the fears which enclosed you,

Raised from the earth, from the cells that opposed you,

Green with the gleam of creation;

Vanquish this shell, this mere skin that confined you,

Stretch past the trials that sought to unbind you,

Run to your Saviour, whose heart bled to find you,

Fly toward heaven’s ovation.

My heart aches tonight, but I know that you are in the Presence of perfect Love at last, and that I cannot begrudge you, my sweet friend…

In memory of Marcy Payne

 

 

 

 

The Funeral

Saskatchewan Landing sunset

Her heart is a sinking sun,

pooling patches of dried blood

on a canvas thickening

with yesterday’s paint. Tucked in

rich velvet and laid to rest

(open to public viewing)

she mourns its passing, pressing

treasured lines of scrawled script to

lips of stone, epitaph carved in

lieu of flowers. Rays of light,

the glory days of holding

and being held, protrude from

memories slashed through the frayed

places where sky meets casket’s

edge. The sun will rise again

but not today, not until

a thousand tomorrows have

burned to ashes, cremation’s

signature on cloud-sealed urn.

 

The Hall Clock

hosta-bud-raindrop.jpg

 

When she can’t hold them (the sheer

weight of burdened hypotheses) they

fall, a ticker-tape parade of broken

dreams

pregnant with remorse. And even then,

they cling like maggots, feeding

on death, slavering in the frenzy; she

accepts the onslaught as necessary

(even natural), as a part of her due

for past errors, flagellation

working mystical redemption

on her Prometheus soul. She

will allow herself one hour

by the hands of

the hall clock before she expels

the notion; dry-eyed

and encased in armour

she will complete

the month’s living,

counting the moments

in heaps until her

next breakdown.