A LITTLE EACH DAY

AUTHOR’S NOTE-

IT TAKES A LITTLE NURTURING EACH DAY TO THRIVE.

IT TAKES A LITTLE TEARING DOWN EACH DAY TO DIE.

WITH A LITTLE EACH DAY-A GARDEN CAN GO EITHER WAY.

 

I STOOD IN THE GARDEN
MY FEET BARE WITHIN THE SOIL.
YOU TORE OFF EACH PETAL OF MY SOUL-
A CARETAKER OR A SCROYLE.
MY CRIES TO ST. DYMPHNA
SHE UNDERSTOOD MY PAIN.
A SPIRIT CANNOT THRIVE
WITH JUST THE SUN AND RAIN.
YOU CAN NURTURE.
YOU CAN FEED.
YOU MAKE THE GARDEN GROW.
YOU CAN DROWN THE ROOT-
YOU CAN HACK THE STEM.
NO ONE WILL EVER KNOW.
THE WATER FELL. THE SKY WAS BRIGHT.
YOU RETURNED TO SEE YOUR WORK.
THERE I WAS-
LIFELESS-
STILL GROUNDED IN THE FERTILE EARTH.
CDS
FEBRUARY 2020

Give Me Art

I am not sure if this is satire or a little melancholia.  I wrote this to detail my feelings as I discard certain “things” from my home in my desire to lighten the load, and not have so much “stuff.”  I was thinking about art in all of its forms. Art that requires physical space and art that occupies mental space.  I LOVE art I can touch, but I also love art I can read and hear.  This was an effort to console me. 

Give me art.

I must discard the canvas gently stroked with your brush.
The swirls and the colors shaped beautifully by your gift.
The fiber and the texture I can feel with my touch.
It is time to let it go.
Its dwelling place is gone.
Give me art.
I want to hold it close.
Write down the words that fill that space.
The beautiful prose I hear. 
Formed lyrically from your talent.
I have a home to store it.
Give me art.
Never to be cast out.
My spirit will hold the verse
and it will rest upon my heart.
 

 

 

On Tasting Grief

 

My grief made me vomit sobs.

The pain was not palatable.

Repulsive pain.
The kind of pain that will make you hate.
Bitter.
That sick taste.
My grief made me vomit sobs.
Like a virus that lingers.
Cast out this substance.
Still shaky on my feet.
Time is what it takes to swallow life again.