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.

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Straight Jacket

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she hides her heart

won’t hang it anywhere near her sleeve

buttons all emotion

keeps her cards close to her chest

she would love to love

but has sentenced herself to

solitary confinement

in the straight jacket her

wounds have sewn

only a big love can unbuckle

the way she clasps herself

will you be

the one?

Hearts of Stone

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Hearts of stone cannot bleed;

aortas and ventricles

clog and contort,

but will not spill their precious cargo.

 Hearts of stone

may be islands,

coastlines of security for the soul interred –

but do not good bedfellows make.

Hearts of stone

do not conform to spooned softness

or adapt to reaching arms;

they will not break for others

or drive change in the leaking.

Better to bleed,

spill,

beat fast with the pain,

than to remain

a stone.

The Web

Spider's Web Hens and Chicks

The web you weave caught hapless fly,

but now that I am grown, I spy

the trickery in every strand,

the feeding frenzy Evil planned;

so – no thanks.  Invitations sent

are recognized; their true intent

has been exposed, so say good-bye

to feeding on this wary fly…

Puffed Up

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It’s more than pride that puffs her up.

Layers build buffers

between soul and the cold;

in the places where

denial runs up against reality,

stripping down

is decidedly counter-intuitive.

Fences

may make good neighbours,

but they block the very life-giving rays

that her soul most seeks.

It will take all of her courage

to face the cold without feathers,

but only in nakedness can

sun make love to skin;

 intimate connectivity with the Light

will dress her more beautifully

than her puffed up profile

ever could…

Sticks and Stones

Image courtesy of diaryofafirstchild.com

Sticks and stones were thrown at me,

A diatribe of pain.

I believed, and in belief

I bruised myself again.

Sticks and stones were thrown at me

I questioned and I scoffed –

Stood my ground with shield in place;

Deflected, they bounced off.

“Put on all of God’s armor so that you will be able to stand firm…” Ephesians 6:11 NLT