Beckoning

Come home.

They won’t be there for you,

But I will be, and

I’m good for the soul.

Come home because the crystal-soft clouds

Hover above the mountains

Blanketed with hushed snow

And the sinking sun tosses it all

In rose-white and grey.

Come home because I will be there

to stitch up your heart

After they cut open your body.

I will stay with you so you’re not alone.

Come home because as the glowing clouds drift across the

Last bit of daylight sky, they leave behind the blue and white,

The first touches of dusk spread across the windswept snow

And it’s then we’re all grateful to have our orange-bathed hearths.

Come home with peace.

Come with a love deeper than you’d ever known leaving.

Come wrapped in the arms of Christ and

Come in faith that you’ve never left them.

Come because you have to.

Come under the knife and the needle;

Walk brave through the fire;

Serve God, and mend.

Come with your heart full of their tears

And their wrinkles and their child’s faith.

Come with their fire to warm the cold people of the North.

Come in faith that you’ve never left them.

Come home.

Crossroads at Salvation

Oh my love,

For thus you are,

I wanted to say goodbye for such a long time.

But just before you left, you said,

Hello.

You reached surely and clearly out

And touched my heart.

Oh my love,

We shall not live easy lives;

We have fingers that shake and eyes that quiver with bright tears

And hearts that ache so much we must close our eyes and open our mouths

And where sound should be, there is pain.

The things we kept inside, the things we didn’t say

Could’ve filled an entire Bodleian Library,

Chained inside walls too high

Built of secrets and sealed with circumstance.

My love,

I call you thus now

For time has not granted me a reason not to.

It shall.

I’d say, ‘don’t worry,’ but I know you don’t.

Trust, you say. Trust.

You shut your eyes so tight and held on for dear life

And fell

Right back to where you belonged.

I don’t know where I belong.

Only who I’m supposed to be.

I was your sunshine and your life-blood.

I got you up in the mornings and drew a smile across your lips.

I stopped your tears and started your heart.

I was your hand and your heart and your shoulder and your joy.

Only time will tell if you shall ever, purely and completely,

Be mine.

Shadows of Yours

The worst sort of man,

A dog, he called himself

And he laid down and cut it short for love.

I’ve cried those tears, knowing

Just how hard the fight can be.

Don’t

Give

Up.

Sometimes just making yourself believe that tomorrow is better

Makes you the champion of today.

Nighttime, don’t steal my days;

They are my utter salvation.

Tears, don’t linger too long on the words.

You know well and deep what that does to your poor heart,

And your poor life right along with it.

You will be better

You are NOT the sort of person that gives up.

That bar will never come down

Don’t you DARE stop clinging on for dear life.

That power is coming straight from inside

Given straight from above

A long, long time ago.

A gift that precious was given for the express purpose

never to be wasted.

Claw your way out, darling.

Let yourself be pulled from your rubble and

Don’t ever stop hoping.

Stop your shivering wet midnight wanderings and

Sleep sound in love,

The love you’ll never have to cry without.

Find in the desolate man the assurance

That the hand that holds yours as you stare death in the face

Is the one that will always, always pull you out. 

Plaid

Fall is here.

It’s here in this little British town in October.

The leaves dying as embers and falling away,

Full of life.

The cathedral standing against an unsure sky

And the house with the ivy tattoos,

Beautiful images of the countryside.

And for an odd moment,

I want you here.

I don’t want you here to act in my play,

Write our names in the stars,

Or find me in hide-and-seek.

I just want you here

Comfortable in my presence, and I in yours.

The quiet burning of the tree’s arms

The warm brick buildings

And the energy in the air,

Bidding us breathe deeply the late afternoon

and curl softly into the chilly night

that waits for not a soul.

I just want you here so I can share my sight.

So you can see the clouds rolling over the green sea of life

Grown from fresh air and beautiful country soil.

So you can see me see it;

For I fancy that’s half the delight.

I’d like to share with you,

hot chocolate and thick plaid

warming toes wrapped in woolen socks.

I’d like warm hands matched with warm gloves

And warm hearts.

The world shrinks as the cold sets in, and

I want it to bring you a little closer to me.  

The Words

I tried to write a poem.

And the words fell out of my fingertips

and broke on the screen.

They made a noise like tin

and tasted like humidity.

I was going to lament things that don’t match up,

and bemoan my over-analytical tendencies.

I was going to wring my metaphorical hands

and curl up in a pile of beautiful words and cry.

But the words – no one told them

what to mean.

They were confused

because I am confused.

I’m trying to lure sadness out

but it is happy where it is.

I’m trying to force patience in

but it’s fed up and refuses to wait.

Mostly, the words were shaking because

I didn’t know where to put them.

I’m no expert and when I read my words,

they came back, “This is not how you feel.”

So I listened and made them talk about themselves.

But I must be so very selfish, because we ended up

talking about me.

                    -March 4

Telegram

STOP. Where do you think you're going?
Come back here.
STOP. What do you think you're doing?
You can't take that. It's mine.
STOP. Where did all the butterflies go?
They left so quickly and I'm wondering if they abandoned you, too.
STOP. What are you thinking?
Who looks at what's going on here and reacts like you do?
STOP. Please stop.
I knew it was going to be like this.
STOP. I wanted it to end earlier.
I knew that the further in we got, the harder it would be to
STOP the hope and the living outside of myself.
I knew the longer it lasted, the worse it could get.
STOP, I told myself.
Don't think like that. But sometimes I can't
STOP myself, and words come out and things are said and
I can't take them back.
STOP. No one's ever said things are broken.
No one ever said there was anything to break.
STOP. Why must it fall apart?
Don't think like that. You'll never
STOP. You'll learn to mistrust and misjudge
and you'll anticipate the end as a crashing fiasco.

But if we could all just STOP and consider how many times
my brain goes around in a second, we'd know that none of this even matters.
STOP.


First time you breathe deeply is the first time it'll go right.