When A Heart Cries 3
All the tears ever cried
I caught in my cupped hands;
All the blood ever bled I kissed
To soothe its sorrow. I never understood.
Why things came and went.
Why they were always broken in between.
How I could just let them go,
Like raindrops passing through my fingers.
How to let go a heart, a soul, a life?
It is hard, and strange, and wonderful,
Being attracted to broken things.
It is like watching a storm come
Upon the plains, feeling the wind
Against your face, and the first
Spattering of raindrops, and
Surrendering yourself to it.
When A Heart Cries 2
I knew it was dangerous, daring
So close to the darkness that is
In broken things, but I was a child.
Like a child who runs outside
To see the lightning, to feel it
Vibrating in her bones, cracking
Its fingers through the sky––
So was I. I was attracted to broken things.
Butterflies’ wings and shattered glass.
I pieced them back together
With infinite tenderness, setting all
The fragments into place.
I tried to stop snowflakes from melting
And roses from losing their petals.
I tried to keep the plants from dying
In the winter, and the snow from
Vanishing in the spring.
I did not understand that there
Is a time for things, a time to come
And a time to go. I did not know why
Even the lightning flickered out
Of the sky, when it had only barely
Come alive.
When A Heart Cries 1
From when I was little I was different,
Though I didn’t know it at the time.
When I was little I didn’t think why––
I just was. I was attracted to broken things.
Broken hearts and souls and lives.
I wanted to touch them, understand them.
I felt their pain. Like how when you
See a butterfly with a torn wing
You feel its tornness somewhere
Deep inside the colors of your spirit.
But how do you sew back together
The ripped edges of a butterfly’s wing?
So fragile, like snowflakes.
What thread do you use, what needle
For those delicate wounds?
Or the tattered wings of a human soul––
With what do you mend such a tear?
There is no needle and thread
For a broken heart. I never understood––
When I tried to stitch it back together,
It only bled more. Red. Ruby.
Crimson. Carmine. Tears of blood.
Like raindrops on a spring rose
In the dreary light of early morning.
When a heart cries, or a soul,
How do you comfort it?
I Am She (speaking of prepositions....)
I am she who walks
In darkness
Below starlight
With angels and demons
Along paths that are lonely
Through shadows
By whispers
Among beams of sunlight
Within shimmers of memory
Between the haunted and the darkling
Toward ghosts and old dreams
Across the forbidden and forsaken
Beside legends
Onto battlefields
Underneath wraiths of cloud
Beyond all shreds of doubt
In front of mirrors all naked
Past swords and all anger
Into blackness
Behind stones and doors
Like a snake
Without fear
Up to edges of glory
From dusty old stairwells
To closets of forgotten dreams
Inside doors always locked
Near murmurs of death
Despite trembling and fear
For all that is good
On all that is earth
Beneath the skies and the gods
Until all comes to naught
Except virtue and vice
Since these are eternal
Under the heavens
Outside of all time
Up under the shells of dead thoughts
Upon the skin of the world
Down under its sinew
Throughout its lands and its peoples
During highstorms and weepings
After the riddens
Above the crashing tide
Against it all, the madness, the bitterness
But also the stillness
In spite of all longing
Instead of all joy
At the threshold of victory
Before the doors of fulfillment
Because of the darkness
Out from the light
Over all these memories and twistings
About things unknowable
Since they are what's worthy
Of all things in life
Off edges bold daring
I am she who walks.
A Girl Like The Sun
The wisdom of life
Is in acorns and sunlight
And wisps of cloud over the moon.
It's in the wailing of a child,
The bleating of a lamb,
The lonely cry of a wolf to the moon
On a shimmersome winter night.
It's the gleam of virgin snow
And the aching trumpet of the lune;
It's the tinkling melody
Of sunlight on dandelions
And on the slithersome, coy fish
Gliding beneath the dimpled stream.
Wisdom is the fear and determination
In the eyes and clutching arms
Of a mother as she clasps her babe
To her breast and rocks him,
Back and forth, back and forth,
As something dark and faceless
Moves in the night outside.
Wisdom is the throbbing of a heart.
It's the awe in the eyes of the girl
As she watches the eagle wheel above;
It's the quivering of a candle
In the dark, quivering at the breath
Of the boy as he holds the candle up,
Feeble and dauntless before the dark,
Pressing into the vast of the unknown.
Wisdom is a smooth white stone
And the sea in a storm
And the slow anger of gentleness
That builds against all that is evil.
It's a lonely boy with hair like fire
Sitting on a nighttime rooftop
Picking the sorrows out of his life
On his lute, sending it's sweet
Strains of music floating out
On the dim fragrant darkness
Of the midnight.
And wisdom, if it is anything,
Is the little wisp of a girl,
A girl pretty as the sun,
With hair like spun gold
Drifting around her
As she clasps her knees
To her chest
In the shadow of a chimney
And listens, listens, to that sweet
Strain of music,
And wonders, and smiles, and hopes- -