Haphazardly Alone

I felt this topic applicable and have not posted from my journal recently, so I shared this. While doing my Creativity Project on Chronicles, I entered a handwritten piece almost daily.

I have been having difficulty with handwriting for a while. I recently discovered my vision impacted that because, on a whim, I picked up a set of reading glasses. I wear contacts that are an adequate adjustment, but close work like writing demands a bit more.

Being a bit perfectionistic, I hate to bring anything not up to my standard here.

Prompt: Do something unusual in your creative practice; share it if you dare.

Gratitude:

One of my most challenging times of year ends within the next few days, Easter being the culmination of it, and I made it through without a major meltdown.
Back on track with handwriting.
I cooked from scratch the other night, and it was not all bad.
Having a dishwasher.
Running water.

Sometimes I wonder why I continue with this, but it is my practice. If I were not doing the Creativity Project, I would not work as hard to produce something viable every day. If you would like to follow the site, see the sidebar for three methods. Communication from you as a reader gives me some clue whether or not I am engaging you in a manner that pleases you.

I hope all of you who celebrate Easter have a blessed one. To those following other paths, may you find hope, joy, and peace in your daily realm.

Emerge, To Be

A saber struck through
My heart, failing to understand –
Why I am here, and they are gone.
Tears cut furrows down my cheeks
My sobs the neighbors, awake.

Each one a star of heaven’s sky –
What IS this? Who AM I?
Others say, “It’s not your time!”
But why theirs, if not mine?

My soul quakes, aches, to call
Them all, bring them back
Their parts to play, the stage
Devastated with their absence,
The curtains fallen, crimson glory.

I could name them, one by one,
Those precious, who are gone
Through actions, they cannot unmake,
We cannot restore them, taken
By the working of their hands.

Please, please understand
No matter what you have done,
Been, seen, experienced –
There is still enough, still love,
Still more, friendship, joy in store,
You belong; you are pricelessly dear.

Reach out, find someone, let them
Be a heart to catch you, help you.
Reach, keep on until you find one
Who shows you there is meaning
And a hungry need for you to be.

Life without you is less shiny,
It is incomplete; your smile
Fulfills someone’s need, you are
A blessing indeed, and there exists
A purpose suited to your unique identity.
I know the battle is exhausting
But let us not give up; I am counting
On you to recognize life as a gift;
Stay, continue fighting, together
Everyone can make it.

Not the Roses

Roses weep their
Jeweled blood
Upon deserts of
-Complaint-
No love we reap
With thorns of
Doubt,
Vicious fear,
Pricked hearts
Without restraint.

Love may in
A flood of tears
Wash into seas
Of time,
Where smiles
Decorate
Parting years,
All things set
Aright,
As gentle dew
Bathes
The roses
And the sun
Kisses
Pleasant gardens
With fantastic
Waves
Of delight.

Still, lifeblood is
Expended in fields,
Roses
Come to rest,
Creativity becomes
The hope to save
From rending;
Infinite test.
We are and are
Not
Known for inside
We lie hidden
Weeping
Often for what is
Forbidden.
Love and fear
Entwine
Become one, the
Same,
Edges cut, glass
Ensnares,
Inside alike
Yet, the time
It takes
More impossible
To reclaim.

What some call impossible is never far from mind.

Same

We are coiled fibers
On separate continents
Our wiring entwines
Balances our humanity
Furnishing hope, joy, and love.

Our hearts beat, rhythm,
Alike, in Crayola bodies,
Grace swearing us in,
Hands touching hands, render smiles,
Cherishing we ragamuffins.

Presents beribboned
Sharing melodies inspired
Forgetting in place
Differences – become friends,
Each countenance shining light.

Opening ebon doors
To unleash brilliance, delight;
Understanding change
Growing fruitful, courageous,
Saluting equally all.

With passion aflame
Given examples guiding love;
God who embraces
Each aspect, person, creation
Abides, the Spirit of Grace.

Sunday

It was Sunday again. She knew not because she could follow days, but because after feeding the chickens, Auntie insisted she take a bath.

It was a new thing, bathing herself alone; she was only a small girl.

Life was different now. Her Mama had gone away to someplace far, called Florida. Daddy said she would never be back.

Auntie had come to live in the little house because she was a widow- woman, alone. Sometimes she seemed strange with her black clothes and strict rules. She knew things like no one else did. People sent for her when someone was sick, or babies came, or people left this living.

She was mean at times, telling the little girl, “If you don’t behave, your Mama woman will come and take you away from here, and you will see your Daddy no more.” Tears and sobs would torment Hope because she loved her Daddy and Bubba more than all the things, including her one baby doll. She had night terrors of being snatched by the bad woman and taken away.

After she bathed in the tub of cold well water, Auntie pushed her dress, underwear, and shoes into her arms. She was careful in putting them on just right because Auntie was handy with a switch.

Soon Daddy, dressed in black, except his white shirt and the gray tie he wore, said it was time to begin the long walk to the church. It was dry now, so the road threw up little spurts of red dust as they strode along.

When they reached the bridge over the creek, Hope cried and wrapped herself, best she could around her Daddy’s legs; he could keep her safe from the harm of falling or being taken away.

Daddy reached down and effortlessly took her in his arms. Since the child could walk, she had been terribly afraid of falling through the cracks in the bridge. Now it was compounded by nightmares and his sister’s stories her mother might step out of the woods and steal her.

Auntie screeched, “You should put that child down and make her walk. You are spoiling her. She will turn out to be no good at all.”

Daddy looked at her, saying, “But she is only three, and she needs to learn love is a safe place, a safe person, she can trust when she is frightened. Hush up now; you are not the one supporting her weight. She is my precious Hope; she has lost a lot, it is okay that I carry her. Mind yourself, don’t be so cold-hearted.”

I rarely tell stories, this one is based on reality. The little girl is my Mom.