Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The Well Meaning Angel

I am a weary traveller,
washing my hands of myself as I fall down at his door,
carrying every wound that I once hoped someone else would hold,
begging for the breakthrough of flaming valleys.

I am too weak to tell him that I do not want to be fixed when he finds me,
he doesn’t try to tell me that I am safe from my own soul and all the terrible, dreadful things it could do,
because he is a servant of my best friend’s father,
and he can never tell a lie.

I want it, but I cannot accept it.
He takes my tears and let’s them trickle back into my eyes,
but they never stay in place.
I take to the seas after sundown,
never going down with the ship,
because he has the audacity to save me, each time I try to drown.

A young man on the hill,
holding the child of a tree in his humble hand.
He guides me back to shore,
pulling me from the wreckage, when he must,
much too good to me,
and never asking anything in return.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

My Two Fathers Are Watching

He towered over the troubled child,

virtuous, virgin of hope,

a child,

ripped from a child herself.

Messy when she fingerpaints,

messy when she scribbled words that would one day become whole worlds,

messy when she tried to climb the kitchen cabinets for biscuits before dinner,

his very own Macarena.

He had such hope for her,

unable to see her human failings,

and how he’d feel about them,

because a father’s love is beautifully blind,

and she was fantastically flawed,

in a way he would learn to love,

once the disappointment dimmed.

Now,

he still towers over her,

watching from God’s garden as his cherished child fingerpaints herself into futile corner after futile corner.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Mary’s Boy Came Home

You came home,

long hair billowing in the spring winds,

sunlight shining through the open door as the sea of your mother’s tears finally parted and peace returned to her pillow.

She lived another lifetime in the time you were gone,

her eyes were weary but her arms were welcoming,

and you fit so neatly inside her embrace,

because it was your home.

Your soul is scarred but you don’t let her see,

breaking bread while the sun sets,

and she stares with awe filled eyes,

because her heart was gone,

three days of hell,

endured by a pure woman,

who had felt more pain than she had ever caused,

but you came home,

and now her heart is where it belongs.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Divorce

I was on the pier,

playing my part in filling the ocean,

collapsing under the chaos of home,

bound to return,

but broken at the thought.

For a moment,

for the very first time,

I was alone.

There had never been a voice,

or even a familiar, friendly hand to hold,

just a promise of forever,

golden,

guiding light,

that surrounded me,

until,

it suddenly went out.

My devotion,

deserted,

as I bled into the beach,

begging for the space to breathe,

for believing to be easier,

for just a second.