Surrendering

Slow, soft, peeled surrendering,
lifts dried and crusted face,
the mother's bright blue shawl,
across the boards does drape.
That curl of edge has risen,
that flake of crippled age,
revealing perfumed timbers;
advancing on time's stage.
How silently the years do sing,
how cautiously they pull,
upon the base and riven boards;
displaying hidden truths.
The split in image is decreed,
in ancient, layered strokes,
which smile in sudden bursting;
persona cannot hold.
How gentle is this dying,
in suppurative sighs,
with certain, deep releasing;
in shreds of helpless lies.
There is no raging battle,
no angered grief or tears,
but only mere acceptance;
resigned when death appears.

The years

The years did huddle closely,
the future misted clear,
and in the tread of time
and fate; my destiny revealed.
The days long gone did gather,
like pleated bits of life,
arrayed in circled spreading;
a skirt of deep disguise.
Shadows thrown through hours,
minutes dusted fine,
from birth to death eternal;
the gifts of heart and mind.
With loosened thread of being,
the garment still did hold,
and danced in futured softening;
the realms of growing old.

Grief

Like layered, tissued longing

grief builds  slow and quiet,

beyond the call of consciousness

through ancient days and nights.

From earliest beginnings

life spreads it strong but sure;

within emotion's cellared heart

it waits to be recalled.

For everytime we need to shed

our Self, our dreams, our hopes,

we lay it down in silken spread

as grief's fresh broken face.

From our first breath it builds

and grows, like rings around a tree

and every time we feel new loss,

that floor will be revealed.

It is our sure foundation,

our feeling Self laid deep

and if we do not tend and mend

it will grow weaker yet.

We try to close the door each time

and lock the pain away,

but deep within our darkest Self

the damage is displayed.

Without the time and courage spent

to see and feel and heal,

we build our Self on shaky ground;

a floor which cannot hold.

Time is so illusory

Time is so illusory,
ephemeral and light,
and yet it holds
with heavy hands,
my deep, eternal night.
It's in the darkness
of the day, that
I can call and find,
a greater weight
within the hours;
hangs heavy on
my mind.