When the sky is black
With storms brewed thick like coffee
You take my hand
And one by one,
The stars come out
You live in the land of the Dawn,
the place where Light is being born.
Darkness grips you still, as labour
pains begin. You exist in the
Between, the not-yet, the middle
of the fairytale, where witches
cast spells and evil triumphs and
your happy ever after has
no power – but your story
is not over. Not yet. That dawn
breaking leaks words on your pages,
penning resolve, perseverance,
hope, courage into existence
and you, awake in the dark, see
stars before they shine – prophetic
promises – with your eyes of faith.
Hope unfolds, a wrinkle in time,
boutonniere in a funeral pocket.
It whispers to the weary
when gale-force winds shout,
yet its stir conquers kingdoms
and uproots emperors,
one pale pink petal at a
time. Hope is one drop
of one wave of one ocean,
yet it carves out its allotment
of the shoreline with a steady
hand. It dares to grasp the moon,
sleep with stars, paint the
Sistine Chapel, bow at the throne
of heaven, bloom on a cursed earth.
Hope is the candle in the window
to call its sons home…
The niches where life’s cruel claws
have scratched and torn through surface skin
draw blood from veins, where pain leaks through,
and trace the places you have been.
A surface coat of ‘happy paint’
can’t cover up your precious scars –
in sharing yours with all of us,
your wounds can shine like healing stars.
My Fair Lady, what do you see?
You retain a visionary’s air,
a nonchalant wisdom
as you gaze upon the spectacle that is Life.
And of what do you whisper when the night falls,
and the Mourning Dove coos her lullabies?
Where do you hide the dreams that liven your waking hours
and dare you to reach for the stars?
From whence do your thoughts flow, when the shadows stalk?
If you could but drop me a hint,
I could join your Kingdom and take my place,
a fledgling Fair Lady
whose dreams would mingle
with your own.
Roses tend to be rather less roses this way,
but hailstones, Nature’s Mafia,
convinced you that life would be safer,
cast in the role of ‘Victim in a Puddle’.
You tremble in your cement boots.
Extortion always exacts a price, unequally applied.
Your grip on reality relaxed
and here you lie,
‘She Was a Good Mother’ carved on your tombstone.
Your fall was silent,
a gradual descent into madness,
and only the stars