Category Archives: poetry

Lunches on the Atlantic

I’m missing our lunches on the Atlantic
Finding just the right parking place
Toting portable chairs we might not use
Carrying small coolers filled with good things to eat

I’m missing our lunches on the Atlantic
Discussing the morning and all that transpired
As we listened, wrote, reflected, and shared
And risked reading stories of grief and shame

I’m missing our lunches on the Atlantic
Not getting too sandy, because benches were found
Feeling the hot sun baking us warmly
While watching the clock so as not to be late

I’m missing our lunches on the Atlantic
Moments that felt so natural and free
Sister-hearts connecting in liminal space
Knowing something inside us is being transformed

I’m missing our lunches on the Atlantic
Some sacred space you don’t realize til late
Like benches and small coolers joining together
Inviting communion over lunches on the Atlantic

Which I am missing.




Shattered

An oval platter perches in the drainer, precariously balanced. I notice the carefully arranged pile of clean dishes, resting just so by the one who managed to fit every washed and rinsed piece together like a tower of Jenga blocks.

I lean over the pile to open the cupboard above, the one that holds medicines, vitamins, and the thermometer. My arm bumps the platter which loses its balance on the top of the stack and crashes to the floor, breaking into pieces.

The noise itself is enough to evoke strong response. A child stands near, waiting for me to retrieve cold medicine. I swallow back words rising to the surface, past my chest, into my throat, longing to escape my lips in a fury of noise.

Stand back. A dish just broke. Are you hurt? Watch out for the pieces.

I take care of the medicine and send her upstairs to get ready for bed as I gather the shatter.

I have two other identical platters, left over from days when I was snatching replacements up on Ebay. I am not sad that it is broken as much as I am annoyed that I have to clean the mess.

I want to blame someone for this, for the fact that something fell unexpectedly and broke, even though it was the result of imbalance and gravity. I turn on myself in a familiar pattern. I could have emptied the tower of dishes from the drainer before reaching over to get cold medicine for a child. Does it matter?

There is no fault.

It’s not about the falling or breaking or blaming. It is about what stirs inside. Always the stirring.

Splintered

Going backwards to find myself
Picking up the pieces
Fragments like the broken platter on the kitchen floor.

The large shards are easy to see, to gather
I collect them in a stack and set them aside to glue later
Where are the splinters?

Those are the bits that will surprise out of nowhere
In the middle of the night
Seemingly invisible, yet sharp
Piercing
Unseen by the eye but felt by the skin when inadvertently stepped upon

I trust a well-placed light to illumine the space
Revealing the slivers before they can harm
I’m finding the pieces to put back together

But should one go missing and enter the skin
A light can illumine the bit of the edge
To pull out with tweezers before it goes deep

Large parts of the story
collected in files
In my mind, in my journals, in my heart
They are gathered, assembled
While the splinters remain scattered
Waiting their turn to be collected, too
Just in a different way
Often piercing under the skin
Surfacing
Seen by the light of love
Tended by kindess
To be put back together
Revealing a brand new purpose.


Creating beauty.

First Day of Spring

This first day of spring brings a brand new thing
A push towards the light
Movement

A walk that is brisk, a sky that is crisp
Steps taken by faith
Courage

A change in some limiting past beliefs
A facing of fear
Growing

Not knowing the outcome, still pressing on
Trusting the process
Patience

Holding the truth that this labor is hard
Yet laboring on
Birthing

Whatever happens this first day of spring
Held close to this heart
Soaring