Shipwrecked

sandy treasures

It wasn’t until her fingers ached with the holding

that she stumbled upon what her heart most craved.

Recasting flotsam into jetsam proved complex –

each snippet and stub, accumulation of a misspent life,

ingrown toenails like colonized barnacles on a heartless hull.

Which to discard?

Where to lay it down?

Her broken treasures had put down diseased roots,

fusing flesh to failure, marrying captain to ship.

Scraping at the splinters, mutiny of the highest order,

was pain more exquisite than the requisite lashes.

But unimaginable riches winked on the sand

and sang Siren notes pure and sweet,

daring surrender, demanding an answer.

Her cries of agony crashed like breakers

as her keel cracked wide;

sea air seared skin freshly exposed to the elements

while baubles trickled to the sand,

frothing like the surf.

Layer upon layer,

all, all became Crusoe to her perfect storm,

her tears lost at sea

with the pounding of her chest

as freedom stirred chains.

At last,

trembling,

spent,

she knelt on bloodied knees

before the pearl of great price

with all she had left –

empty hands.

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Grace Rain

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She’s tired,

so tired,

tired of lists and the

obligatory dance of the

well-worn rut, the

choreography of the

damned. So she’s

letting go, letting

it fall, raindrops

baptising tear ducts

in a redemptive soak,

epsom salts of

grace.

 

 

 

 

Retaining Water

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Retaining water

just makes heart bloat

with unresolved angst;

when tears fall freely,

they water the ground

and cause

dreams

to grow…

For a devotional on this topic, visit Growing With God in My Garden

The Fist

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She raises a bloodied Fist

not so much in triumph

as defiance –

 Fist brittle-caked in

a shame so thick

it bleeds in blushes.

She shakes this cupped and twisted

gauntlet at very God,

and drinks rain,

and wakes to dawn,

and grows tired of the charade.

Ambivalence rips deep –

what if the sky’s blue

is for her?

The rain, a gentle nursing?

Unleashing the Fist

into a cup to hold blessing

might undo the last thread

that pretends to hold her together.

She grits her teeth against the

laceration

and pries. one. knuckle.

from its cradle,

saying good-bye to

the Fist.

Handle

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I just can’t get a handle on this –

every time I think I’ve learned my lesson,

I lose my grip,

and good intentions get buried

beneath this chip on my shoulder.

Is there a How-To Manual

for letting go?

Shovelling this load

has taken its toll.

Lord –

please remind me

that You’re

handling this…