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The final day of vacation holds a sadness
a knowing that the hermit life created for a time must end
that all the sandy remnants washed upon the shore
which once housed life
now provide enjoyment for collectors

as their broken parts begin to renourish the shoreline
as your broken parts started to renourish while on temporary retreat

Yet the wholeness is still fleeting
as soon as the water washes upon the shore
it just as quickly recedes
and even an extended solitary stay
cannot stop the feeling
of slipping away

And so the melancholy pervades
even as the others play and walk the beach
in quiet confidence of more time

More time –
     It’s what you always want
     no matter the endeavor

More time to hug your children
More time to finish your work
More time to stay still

More –
     Nothing is ever enough

Why can’t the blessed moments in life be enough
     without wanting more?

Each moment is encapsulated in the now, past and
     future are no longer or not yet real

More implies lack, and looking out at this expanse
     you know you want for nothing
     except for More

Each shell you collected is real today but gone tomorrow
     and you still want More

Each day a gift, never to be received again
     and yet you sit, melancholy on the sand
     counting the hours until you must part
     rather than counting the waves, the shells,
     the single grains of sand that could fill up
     an entire lifetime of More

Waves, shells, sand
     they know everything comes to an end
     transition is the only way to sustain life
     they share their wisdom
     for those who are open to hear
     those who dare to turn their backs on More

SpiritLed 2014


Sound of No Sound

Lost in thought, her mind
wanders to a younger day, when she
expertly walked the tightrope over joy and
pain, a misstep here and there, but
never completely losing herself in that
cauldron of self-awareness bubbling
below

Pain – it was not feared then, but
admired, on the weathered faces of
the elders, noting their wisdom and
grace, the simple way they brushed
her hair from her face, and kissed
her forehead, assuring her with their own
worry that there was none for her

But now she wonders where that
elder-wisdom has gone, and will it ever
find her, or if it’s even hers to long for,
the kiss of peace long ago washed from
her furrowed brow.

When did she stop trusting herself?
Was it the first time she rolled over in her
lover’s bed only to find he wasn’t there?
When she felt the sharp sensation of betrayal
from one she considered a friend?
When the sting of loss pierced her heart so
deeply she thought she would drown in the tears
she never cried?

In the stillness that is left she listens,
listens for anything that will convince her
she’s alive, and in that empty place, darkness
reverberates like a thousand universes swirling
around their suns, like the hum of angel wings,
like the breath of creation in her ears

Like all those who came before her
Like all who will ever come

The sound of no sound
bringing life, bringing light
resting in the goodness that rests
inside the stillness of her mind,
where she is whole

©SpiritLed 2014


3 Comments

Glass

Three years ago, I lost my mom.

She had been fading for years, but we still talked,

we laughed and loved.

 

It seems like since then loss and loneliness

have been so much of my life.

I feel like I am drowning.

 

After loosing my child, hope, faith,

and that special closeness with my family,

I feel I will never capture the joy in life again.

 

I can only beg you, young people,

to take that joy, when you find it,

and treat it as thought it was glass, because it is.


Kipling’s: Ignoring Eternal Truths

The Gods of the Copybook Heading

 AS I pass through my incarnations in every age and race, I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market-Place.

Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all. We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn.

That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breath of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind. We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,

Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market-Place;
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome. With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch.

They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch.
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings.
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things. When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.

They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “Stick to the Devil you know.” On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life

(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Heading said: “The Wages of Sin is Death.” In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,

By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Heading said: “If you don’t work you die.” Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew,

And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not God that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four-
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more. As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man-

There are only four things certain since Social Progress began:-
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire, And the burnt Fool’s bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,

As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return! Rudyard Kipling

 


1 Comment

What You Could Be

What You Could Be

I look at him, same age as you,

when death snatched you out of the blue.

He’s just 15, but teachers say,

that he will make it big one day.

I touch your photo, hold it too,

each time I pass, your place, your room.

It looks just like it did that day

when Hell took you and life away.

I see him grow, a brilliant smile,

when he creates, he dreams, compiles.

The things I wish that you could see.

I wonder, Babe, what you could be?

It’s just so wrong that you aren’t here.

I see your face, your eyes, your fear.

Still, no one knows, but you and me,

The truth about what you could be.

I pray the day will not be long,

When something might take up the wrong.

And somehow just, please let me see.

The beauty of what you could be.


Life without…

in solitude her footsteps slow; in robe of pink
through empty rooms,  she wanders
no laughter or voice that echo in her days and nights

life strange and silent,  meals for one
with simply why,  as she reaches for the
cupboard door as she did the day before

views once shared by two hands held
her arms now crossed she sees the morning rise
the quiet moon,  with only her eyes

no one to share

do her children know the loneliness
she faces in the minutes,  hours,  the days ahead
with wrinkled trembling hand she reaches

for the phone upon the wall
and stops ~ with a piercing felt within
they have their lives to live

clutching his jumper to her breast
breathes the smell of him;  slowly with care
folding delicately,  it’s placed upon the shelf

with memories

a life now lived without him by her side
what is life to be now ~ what does she do
a broken heart that family cannot heal

words and hugs are not enough

thoughts of where she was born flood back
piercing her heart ~ there is
no home to return to,  there or here

so many years where he knew what needed to be done
paved the way with his decisions, she is lost
she knows not how to cope

he will return he will be once more by her side
she sleeps with fingertips that
trace his pillow where he lay his head

and dreams of his protection

and as her silent teardrops fall,  she sits next
to the empty chair and talks as if he were still
beside her ~ her hand reaching in the air,  in hope

that he will return

©JTacken Sep 2013


2 Comments

Stillness

I stayed until the clouds
came into your eyes.
Your body still too warm
to convince me it was
only a shell.

Although a chill has yet
to set into bones,
a placidity enveloped
around your body more securely
than my arms ever could.

It is earth shattering;
it is a broken rib
sticking its shards into my lungs.

If I believed in heaven,
perhaps I could accept
you fled to a better place.
If I believed in a god
perhaps I could find
comfort knowing your were
at peace.

As it is,
I know only that you’re gone.

There was a time
I wanted to name all the trees
after your kindness.
Count the leaves on my
stretched fingers to remind
you of how many days you
showed me love.

You healed scars
strapped across my spine
and allowed blackened feet
to balance on railroad tracks.
I was invincible
in the reflection
of your eyes.

Now I stand alone beside
breakable body.
My finely woven plots
riddled with holes.
I drown in the
sudden stillness.

~Nika Ann Rasco

See more at Chasing Rabbits : http://nikarasco.wordpress.com/

 

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