The Surrender to Spring – poem on anxiety, winter, spring, hope

The Surrender to Spring

frost

The chill demanded tightened fists, a tightened scarf around my cheeks. Its frost, like fear, deceit cashmere in shadows.

It seems as though anxiety makes home a cold society…and lies awake in shivering and shallow.

Yet as the morning breaks and with it sunlight gently takes away the tense, it seems this warmth is really, grace.

Grace with which to operate, to view, to love, invigorate. Grace with which to saturate this day.

I watch intently crystal hairs that weaken, melt and drip and bare, the blades beneath their outerwear so blithe.

They are still, as they await the transformation. They unveil the season coming, and a brighter shade of life.

Gramma Grace ~ a poem on Memories in Honor

Her hugs would envelope my tiny frame
Hydrangeas of purple white blue
Her slanted driveway gave us a game
Makeshift go-cart planks on wheels

Easter service bunny cake-pan
Jellybeans green-hued coconut
Lemon drop dishes, two in each hand
Makeshift roller skate rink in the back

Reader’s Digest, People’s Court
Whopner, dachshunds, motorized chair
Secret passage, hideout, fort
Eyes that sparkle, giggle fest

We were welcome, we were there
Road trips, parks, reunion fun
We were clueless to despair
Until she stole her life from us

1995 in Spring
When Easter boasts of Jesus’ blood
The day after her birthday’d bring
News of her blood, it left her still

We watched her Pastor lift and roll
Heavy carpet, dripping bed
What would become of Gramma’s soul?
Her wounded heart, is it now whole?

There was no stone that rolled away
Her Depression held a permanence
Can suicide be void of blame?
I’ll never point to man, nor self

Two years later, down the isle
Eight and Braylon grew inside
Twelve my Angel flashed her smile
Nineteen now, I miss her still

I’m Ready

I’m ready. Want to come along? Settin’ out on a long trip to that place called Compassion.

Come along, to that place of passion with me. Leave all that intentionality.

Reroute from your nod and shoulder-shrug to a highway, no – a FREEway to tangible Love.

Complacency, have no place in me! Stop trying to invade my destiny.

You seep into the everyday. Like acid, slowly eat away at empathy and sacrifice,

God empty me of this crafty vice

That saps the oxygen from lungs, and soaks up light inside my eyes

Absorbs the voice inside my mouth and robs me of what love’s about

Til all I’m left with at the end of a day, The end of that year, the end of my life

Is me and my shallow thoughts of me, MY stuff, MY job, MY family

Compassion land is calling now and these seats are filling fast

Complacency, have no place in me; too many await me to act

I’m ready.

Want to come along?

Southbound – a poem on child sex trafficking

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Southbound

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She used to be a sturdy branch, proud and blossom-bearing.

Now she is a piece of firewood, split with an ax and used to warm a man for a moment.

She stares from the backseat down a crowded freeway and ponders the irony of that word.

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Westbound

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Cut from her life-source, now unable to bear the weight of fear, it gets so heavy that it crushes young bones.

It leaves her whiskey-scented, terribly fragmented.

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At the Border

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She recalls the shaky voice of her Sunday School teacher, Mrs. Ray, “all things work together for good” and asks herself if this journey could be included in the glorious idea of  “all things”.

Good, at one point surrounded her; it is now a speck on a mountainside with no road leading to – or from – it.

Her one piece of ID is taken. Soon after, another piece is stolen, never to be returned. This one, much more sacred – a blend of body, mind and potential.

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Eastbound

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Her eyes watch the signs blur by and the pavement turn to gravel to dirt

An unsuspecting field her suite, flowing curtains made of wheat

A client tries, her eyes to meet as she lets them close, recalling a song her Mamma lulled, “turn your eyes upon Jesus”.

She waits for things of earth to grow strangely dim.

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Southbound

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Split with an ax by one more of hundreds.

Wholeness is a far-fetched dream of which she cannot afford to let go. There would be but one option left.

Stories of rescue, of raids and redemption resound with hope just palatable enough to grasp in her small hand.

She opens her eyes and discovers what was clenched in her hand: the corner of a stained sheet. Could have sworn she was in a field.

Knuckles turn white from this plight. If her spirit weakens any more, her hope will be reduced to a thread, spinning and taut.

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Southeast bound

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She hears a wrinkled woman humming a hymn & the words come back to her.

Its truth thickens the thread.

She recalls when that freeway used to be a free way,  summons the courage to imagine a listening, loving God and wonders if anyone is praying to him on her behalf.

And just in case they are not, she whispers, “I still believe in you. You are all I have. Free me. Please.”

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Southbound

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