Grieving spread out beyond five
No candle melts truly—the terra that you love
Just recycles in the light
Serenity meets us often— by a fervent invite
The colors of autumn
Where are they now?
Desaturated and lost in the waves of sight
Pass the forest and come to the purple door,
Three knocks to come forth,
To the stoney garden of the lady with jars
Lost in pensive thoughts, spilled out in tender rains, into the caldron of the cosmos
Cast a bond towards jove…. impart the love of a mother
As purple sage burns the diminishment of pain, and what remains,
Purple ash is scattered from the hands of a mother
Saturating the earth, to spring forth a cathedral of amethyst trees
Halloween spell for : Gina@Singledust
15, 16, stops at 17,
that icebox presence
came through the threshold,
in that corner room
Wednesday night, empty stomach,
was nothing new
at my feet that must of been you
hovering cold and vibrating
in tones of blues
I sobbed in my pillow, but had no excuse
as the blankets of snow, drifted outside,
in ambient whiteout
my heart grew empty,
abandoned it before,
I felt the wounds bloom
In June, my emotional circumference,
the regression rest at 15
in kitchen nightmares
the trash full of squirming opalescence
paint a peeling, chrome pegasus
I felt the specter, go in and out of my head
Urgently, trying to grasp at the middle, 16
my hands with silky knots,
smiling back at you,
with silver rings,
building an anchor for you
at the age of 22, in fact
Who were you? Who was I?
like flashes in the camera eye
use to drive all the way up top
of parking garages
to see how far gravity would reach me
Jason, your phantom steps,
move me down a spiral timeline
to the depths of one echoing point, and
bends back to what was aching
The flutter of flags in the wind,
To sanctify her solitude of grievance.
She wants to be worthy of this utterance.
She has ripened in this season…
Spent with eyes closed and casted to the ground.
Golden bands to open the mind’s eye.
Mummified in golden chants,
To caress the awakening of skin.
The ritual has begun.
Mala crowns her blossoming mind.
Unearthed, in the sacred,
To become a living shrine.
Poem and Art by: Naomi Ruth W.
Hannah, you always soared higher than the skylark. Your dawn song, the loudest, banishing all the darkness of our childhood days.
I often tried to mimic the way you caught their attention, your energy, your beauty, your unshattered confidence—how you sought more life then the day could bring.
You showed me how to be brave through all our youthful escapades. Held my hand when we jumped into that crystal dusk lake. It’s okay, the fish will only caress your legs.
When we climbed out on that roof, it mattered not what season…The country midnight fields echoed our laughter. Your voice booming the loudest and aliveness for the both of us.
When did you start banishing the day? Throwing fire at the sun? You’re battling against your strengths.
Yes, there is time to lie under the grieving rock, but the moss has begun to grow on top. And the air pockets are closing in on your withdrawal. It must be hot!?
In the stark night, you pour poison down your throat, but you’re not meant for this bitterness. Even so you broke your wing, the dawn still misses your summoning.
I’m only your little sister, but I’ll fly and sing out…Tell the sun you’re just under the shade. That your song will shimmer in the reflective morning again. Once your done being the Nova of the night.
Poem and Photo by : Naomi Ruth S. W.
Video: Heather Nova – Throwing Fire At The Sun
You asked me who I was. I told you I was a water fountain always going up to fall back down on myself.
I imagined your love was like my battered pores—always opening and closing.
Indifference, should it be this way? Better then broken. Are we really like goldfish? That will die and be replaced.
Should I have asked for your forgiveness? For I wanted that time as my great trial of love.
While you were away in science fiction…
I sat on those hard concrete steps…wore all black…twisted my rings.
Around 10:00 p.m. I had to sit on my hands to stop the urge to dig.
If you only met me back on that fiery October night; the dying of the red would never had started.
I nearly forgot you but when midwinter drew near, you left me in a way I thought I could never forgive myself for.
I was enticing like Helen, and I’m still drinking from that nepenthe cup. But the memories still abides in this numerical numbness.
Monkey Cup image: Pinterest
It was through the dark waters of grief that I came to touch my unlived life…There is some strange intimacy between grief and aliveness, some sacred exchange between what seems unbearable and what is most exquisitely alive. Through this, I have come to have a lasting faith in grief.
Our healing is in “every small contracting and expanding.”
A great read. For me, writing poetry is a way to exhale my sorrows. The grief still lingers but I’m not holding my breath with it. Yes, perhaps I’m addicted to this type of sadness, but I know what gifts it brings. I welcome it, for in all my days of sorrow, my heart has learn to surrender and I’ve found sweet serenity in doing this.