The Icicle Project

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If I were

an icicle

I would melt

into your love

letting go

of the past

like tears

rolling down

cheeks

of glass

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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.

Grassroots Growth

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Brittle hands emptied out,

crisp-crackled in the dying places,

freeze-dried from the endlessness of

to-do lists, the heaped up inadequacies of fertilizing

failures, fold in prayer, the cry of a surrender which

knows its own hollowness at last. And where

empty meets Full, the

green can begin, grassroots growth.

Salvaged

watercolortrees

Paint my skin in springtime shades,

warm the tones of cold judgement.

Let Light wash over my frozen opinions

and brush aside arrogance and pride,

covering that powerful streak of stubborn selfishness

with magnificent magenta mercy,

graceful gouache glory.

Frame my life’s context

against the wall of Your gallery,

anoint my head with oils and pastels,

running over into lithographed lap.

For I am but a copy

until Your fingers draw out the Original;

I am but a replica

until Your signature calls me Salvaged.

Your Hand

Sunlight robed in Sunday best,

sky, the sea on canvas brushed,

leaves in rustling autumn vest

swayed to whispered wind-worn hush.

Branches opened fists of wood,

letting go of season past,

and I, who underneath it stood,

saw Your hand, and gripped it fast.

Heaven’s Rain

Heaven’s rain, wash my hands,

Cleanse the actions Your Word bans;

Bathe my feet in raindrops, too –

Make their footfalls follow You.

Heaven’s rain, wash my heart,

Create within a work of art;

Scrub intentions ’til they shine

With lofty thoughts and deeds sublime.