Shimmer dance on yon horizon,
winking, blinking, nodding eye;
watching Sons of Adam’s antics,
shrinking, shamed, such things to spy.
If the sun could speak of human history,
what would it say?
he turns his shame upon himself.
Choice builds habit,
cube by cube,
erecting frozen walls
which become too slippery to surmount.
Had he raised his head
or his voice,
he would have found that
littered with those
But not one of them
raised a head
or a voice,
so the ice
Raise your eyes, little one.
Own no shame
for what your world has done –
battered and bruised,
torn, shattered, forsaken,
you hold within your bosom
the ultimate treasure.
Let go, little one.
Let the seeds borne through
heat and drought,
flood and famine,
Your beauty has faded,
but your heart will live on.
The seed planted in you
has been multiplied
like loaves and fishes;
raise your eyes to heaven,
where your seeds
will settle like dew
as angels reap
what you have sown.
Through the Iron Maiden’s bars
I spy a fairyland, a place
where peace grows, seeded row by row
with roots of safety, soil of grace.
But Iron Maiden bids me stay,
she bars the path to enter in;
whispers how I don’t belong,
hints at defect deep within
so here I stop, with longing gaze,
aching for the scene I spy,
wanting Eden’s leafy rest,
believing Iron Maiden’s lie.
She wears a stain, a purple smudge, upon her shame-drenched soul;
A wine splotch to remind her of the booze that ate her whole.
A heavy burden, that old stain, to carry all her days;
A ticking time-bomb blasting up her inner working’s ways.
She has resigned herself to suffer under its strong mark –
To carry consequences grave, alone in hidden dark.
But healing comes when grace collides with weaknesses and pain;
She meets the One who gave His all, to make her whole again,
And now her stain, instead of shame, is shining like a light
To beckon others to the path where healing is in sight.
Bloom on, brave heart, your beauty shines from soul which suffered loss;
Your stain’s a mark that points the way to find hope at the Cross.
Why do you hang your head, as though
The shame you carry was yours to keep?
Your beauty is lost on us, who
Grasp but a fragment, fallen asleep.
If you would lift your countenance,
Bestow on your viewers your full charm,
We could water you with our love
And help you reject the pain and harm
You’ve endured. Stand firm, fair flower,
You still have much to give our world;
If you will tilt back, seek the sun,
Your hidden beauty will come unfurled…
You spent your shame on me,
and it stuck
velcro-like in my chest,
a second skin.
So I’m brandishing burrs –
persistent in power,
tenacious in triumph,
they cling contagiously,
consummation of corruption.
Attempt at removal spreads the disease from
one stick-point to the next,
as tentacles grip with tentacle vernacular.
Shame-burrs pin a second skin
like voodoo doll dressmaker’s pins.
They pierce and drip blood
and spatter on sidewalks
and mar furniture.
Outweighing organs and tissues, they
pull with gravitational ferocity
and I sink
under the mass.
If I shed one in a moment of stability
they call in favours
and reinforcements duplicate
in the ooze.
Do you not feel your burrs?
Do they not stick to you?
I think I’d like to give these back –
I grow weary of their antics.
they don’t display my DNA
or collaborate with my dignity.
Is there a manual for burr-removal?
I’m ready to begin…