Breathe, Child

Breathe, child.

In the silence

find your peace

plaintive tears

grant release.

Breathe, child.

Let longing guide

your winding paths

to still, safe harbors

of gentle grace.

Breathe, child.

Feel the caress,

float in calm waters

of deep night,

blessed.

Breathe, child.

Inspired by Ted Loder’s beautiful poem, Gentle Me, Holy One.

This isn’t like a convenience store

Photo Credit: A  bioluminescent jack-o’-lantern mushroom found in Pisgah National Forest, near Asheville, N.C. Credit Mike Belleme for The New York Times Inspired By: Hunting Mushrooms, and What Makes Some Glow in the Dark  
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Do you not know

some of them glow?

Can’t you find

in this darkling time

the beauty in the rot

the secret, hidden spot

where luciferin and its -ase

combine so slowly, if you please

with oxygen to generate

the chemical energy you seek

of luminescent, twinkling ‘shrooms

brilliance hidden, ‘til new moon

beckons questers such as you

a basket in hand

with mushroom man

stumbling down trails

at the speed of snails

loathe to risk a little light

veiling eyes from the sight

of mycorrhizoid synergy

that beckons gentle foraging

now ended in sodden defeat

back towards home, turn your feet:

“You can’t always get what you want when you want —
This isn’t like a convenience store.”

 

There is no letting go

one musty, mildewed box and then another

are pulled from rafters high above

they land with definitive thuds

dust clouds disguise desire for home

with trembling hands he unpacks meaning

carefully layered in its tissue of lies

as the bones of early days

rattle in time to his failing mantras

of why and how not

what need has he of people

when around him still dwell

souls whom others claim are since long-gone?

 

Reliquary

she no longer knows

what the wooden box holds

where once it held mementoes

the unwritten pages of courage and sorrows

it now gathers tattered, fading petals

cherished letters duly sprinkled

with dust, the withered ink

long since dry

 

Out of Context

Distorted specters of human flesh fused to scale and wing, claw and beak;

bleeding saints tipped into flame by double-headed, horned shades.

Their nightmare visions escape our present-day understanding, although

history opines that people then deemed eyes for eyes as justice well served.

Was it brought upon by churchly fathers fostering fear to dominate?

Or based on actual happenstance of bloody, vengeful, lordly acts?

Methinks the scribblings of today are no less filled with skulking demons.

 

just another . . .

and each year

i say

not this year

and the next year

i say it again

 

and each year

i leave

muddled

and frayed

in arid despair

 

and each year

i solemnly

swear to stand

firm and kind

not brittle and bare

 

and each year

i humbly

contemplate

how failure

haunts me yet

 

and each year

i dare

to fantasize

that next year

will beget more charity