More than Mournable Bodies

They are more than mournable bodies whether disappeared or reinvented in a pimp’s image, no less an image of God, in case you thought otherwise.

Children of blood and bone, certainly; but beyond the skin they are or were in, they breathe fire and thread sinew. Sometimes, dripping it between the grains of sand they are buried in.

They carry their own heartbeats and that of another generation, they sing unto themselves and sisters far into the beyond that is beyond.

Birthing while chained, birthing while buried in that copse over there. They move into the heart of the root and are blown through the breeze, treed tendrils across the crown.

You thought they were drowned, too. The lake and sea may have accepted their bodies but they’ve thrown back the soul bathed in the clarity of the Mother.

Their blood and bone has sown a different kind of power. It is incorruptible. It is  freedom.

You did not bury them.  You’ve rebirthed them.

And unleashed their fury.

We rise.

Advertisements

Prayerfelt

The prayers come

like flowing skeins of hope

landing on a morning dew-kiss

 

The prayers come

crash landing on

energetic waves of rage

 

The prayers come

with stories of love

and yearnings for tomorrow

 

The prayers come

with deep desperation

and the tightness of held breath

 

The prayers come

on the wind and water

and Gabriel’s trumpet

 

The prayers come

and weave around the legs

touch the arms

climb onto the lap

and are received into the heart

 

The prayers are heard

The prayers are felt

The prayers are answered.

I hear you.

I see you.

I love you.

I know.

May Mercy Rise

May the grief-stricken be touched with the tenderest kiss.

May the hunger for hubris be starved as love is heard.

May mercy rise.

 

May the light of beauty shine in the darkest corners.

May hate give way to forgiving Grace.

May mercy rise.

 

May pain and fear be supplanted by communion.

May pride and prejudice succumb to peace.

May mercy rise.

 

May the voiceless sing and open the way.

May the hardened crack under their flood of love.

May mercy rise.

 

May beauty speak the heart of all, in all.

May mercy rise.

 

Speaking Silence

The waters wend

their way around me,

Wrapping around my legs

with a ‘shhhhhh….

Speak.’

Snake and otter stand

on end,

Hood open and head cocked

waiting…..

‘Speak’.

Ancient echoes and memories

course through veins,

entering others uninvited

saying…

‘Speak.’

 

Old Ones come from the hills

with a gentle plea to

‘Speak, child…

Speak.’

 

The throat burns

yearning to know

the words to

‘Speak.’

 

This thing, these things that

the heart burns with

 a knowing I must know

somewhere these the words to answer

‘Speak.’

 

With something more than silent love,

to speak those things for which there may be no words

but they are waiting to be heard again.

 

Hiding Places

Tucked away

beyond the reach.

Reaching out to give

succor and safety.

Only momentarily, though.

We were always found.

 

Now, we need to be found again.

Seen.

For ourselves.

To replace fear with love,

Pity with compassion;

To air out the dark corners

and step into the peace we are,

the peace we bring.

Be found. Be seen. Be loved. To love.

There is no longer any need to hide.

Rise.

Come out from behind the hiding place.

Shine, love.

Love. Shine.

Gnarly Dance

 

When the stars get

tangled up in the hair

and roots get twisted across

the toes,

grace just

isn’t there

 

There is a fine

line between

a twist and shout

and

a pirouette.

 

Grace and ungraceful

go hand-in-hand.