Released

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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

 

 

 

 

Regimes

seed-husk

The old year clings to its fragile stalk,

tenacious, reluctant.

In its husk hang dreams and memories,

broken resolutions,

minutes and hours dried to a crisp.

The dawn of the new year shines pale,

impotent in its infancy,

tiny arms flung to the heavens.

Uncertain, each regards the other; one

with suspicion and the weight of wisdom,

the other with wonder, innocent of pain or pleasure.

The old bows in silence,

nods,

breaks,

falls to the rights of the year to come.

As it falls,

it scatters seeds

and the sunlight

notes where they land.

 

Surprise

frosty-fence

frost feeds on fear

freezes future fortunes

dishes up death on a silver platter

wouldn’t it be shocked to know

when we are flash-frozen

we grow glorious?

Grip of Gold

foggy-grasses

Golden are her tawny tresses,

Golden are her thoughts of late;

Gold her dreams of greener dresses –

Dipped in gold, her dreams await

Days of golden-sunshined splendour,

Tucked neath golden afternoons;

Patient, she will guard her golden

Songs as hope sings gilded tunes.

The Beauty in the Mess

ruffles macro

Within each crease, beneath each scar, and etched in every vein

Her petals form a tale alive with hope carved out of pain;

Though deeply marred, disfigured, torn, her beauty proves to me

The choice to bloom despite her wounds is what has set her free.

I read within imperfect folds a novel penned by grace,

For harshest hurts transformed, redeemed, become the very place

Where subtle hues and fragile scent, those glories forged by stress,

Release our truest, highest self – the beauty in the mess.