Broken Glass and Bullet Holes

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Inside these walls, fix them up,

build them up again, patch the holes

we’re leaking out everywhere,

seeping through the cracks, every piece of

us, of Us, running down the walls

flowing through the gutters, spilling

away from this place.  Here I hung

curtains of hope and invited the sun in,

but the sun has gone and the glass is

broken and so are we, so are we, and all

that was here is cracked from your words

turned inside out, this house we were,

and all our ghosts and angry walls

can’t contain broken glass and bullet holes.

We take it with us and move on.

When Mother Gets Angry

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When Mother gets angry, the children are not safe,

clinging to walls that collapse around them, crushing

childhood beneath her wrath.  She roars at us, and throws

our things about, for they mean nothing to Mother

when she is mad.  She’ll unleash torrents, and we will try

to hide, but Mother knows all the hiding places.

She will knock them down or flood them with her rage, until

we are gasping for air, begging Mother to forgive us.

And when she calms again, Mother is nearly silent.

She never apologizes, only watches us through cloudy eyes

as we try to pick up broken pieces of Mother’s fury.

We hold the children and shake, and try to explain, but

we can’t.  Haunted by the cruelty Mother has unleashed

on some, we whisper and hope, and glance up warily.

Do not make Mother angry.

 

 

The Sea Still Cries

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Listen, hear, I am but a gull whose feathers

raise against offshore winds, but the sea,

the sea sent me with words for you.

I waited by the shore break, passed

many days, tides, and angry rain, for the sea

spoke, called forth the sun. As I rode

his rolling surf, he sung of his love for you,

the furious storms that frightened you away.

He knew you trembled in your sleep, dreamt

of being swept away under his dark waves.

He quieted, and waited for your sun to return.

“Gull,” he cried, “She will come back. Tell her

not to go. Look upon my gentle calm.”

And I was part of the sea, and believed.

You sat with the sea all that day, felt, heard,

listened his song of calm, until the clouds

pulled across the sun, though he fought them,

they were angry, and dark.  The sea tried,

and tried to hold his calm but the dark

clouds and wind were joined, and the waves

swelled, and louder, crashed, higher and soon,

you were trembling again, and left. I was sorry.

And the sea still cries for you.

 

 

Icy Tree Under the Fire Sky

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Icy tree under the fire sky

holds on to her shine, grips

her tender fingers with diamond

drops and defies him to threaten

her with his heat.  She is proud,

stands at the top of the rise,

tips back her head and sings.

Her frozen limbs swing to catch

late day light, sparkle and know

she belongs this way, shining

through angry fire.  He closes in,

trying to melt her delicate ice,

but she holds it higher, her promise,

until fire has melted, receded,

and all that remains behind

is the blue glow of hope.

What Remained

He blew through bitter and dark,

battering her shores with cruel winds

that dragged her in a frenzied, swirling dance.

His wrathful waves assaulted her shore,

her protection, as he slammed his rage

against her, under somber, swirling skies.

She pleaded, tried to reason with him,

even sang a song, of the love between sand and sea,

but his relentless rage continued,

for she had taken up with the sun,

and he could not bear to see her golden sands.

To save herself, she bowed her head,

put up a fence to fend him off,

but he struck it down, “Let your sun

shine on a broken fence.”

Then, depleted from his fury and the change of tides,

the sea retreated, dragging as many

pieces of her with him as he could.

The sun shone on what remained.

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