Vacuum–dVerse Haibun

 

 

 

Vacuum

I am afraid to grieve—afraid that if I open that door a crack those other monsters hidden in the shadows will creep in and invade my peace. Is it because that loss began so long ago, when the brilliance of her mind began to dim, when judgment fled and anger peeked between the clouds? Or has the “business” of dying obscured the underlying pain? And when that’s done (if ever) what awaits? I dread am afraid of grief.

ducklings romp outside
april joy plays in sunshine
hawk swoops in, devours

Kanzen Sakura asks for Haibuns written on the subject of our most honest fears. Visit dVerse Haibun Monday to share.

Photo: Flickr
Labeled for non-commercial reuse

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Blessed Are They Who Mourn

Blessed Are They Who Mourn

Photo: reddit.com

Photo: reddit.com

In the northwest corner of Iraq,
in a Kurdish stronghold, toppled,
in a drafty hovel,
a child, alone, whimpers.
for his parents
who will not return.

In a small country on the African continent,
in an isolated region near the coast,
in the ruins of a burnt-out shack,
a mother wails.
Her child, her lover are dead
bled out by a virus.

In a remote village of Ukraine,
in an unsettled township,
in a frigid home,
an old man shivers.
His world is shattered,
he wonders what comes next.

In a not-far part of my city,
in a homeless settlement by the river,
in a flimsy tent made of old blankets,
a family waits,
dreams of a recent past
before they lost their jobs.

In a southwest suburb of here,
in the warmth of a mansion,
in a world not known to us,
a childless couple grieves
the death of the dog they loved
for seventeen years.

In a corner of my heart,
in the waking hours of morn,
in the silence of my room,
these losses loom.
How can I comfort
so much loss?

Linked to dVerse Open Link Night. Please join us. Somehow, as I enjoy so much abundance, these realities seem all the more expedient. Sadly, this poem could go on and on…

 

Drought–dVerse Meeting the Bar

“Living (now) is like walking through a great weeping. It is like an ongoing funeral, a huge shedding of the life of the world…When the heart knows sorrow and never weeps, the sorrow gets locked like a storm inside the heart. When the sorrow can’t pour out, it turns…to stone.”
Michael Meade

Photo: sfgate.com These hills are usually brilliant green this time of the year.

Photo: sfgate.com
These hills are usually brilliant green this time of the year.

Drought

Last night Earth and I sat down beneath a moonless sky. The stars danced to music we could not hear. She sighed and I waited, listened for her to speak, but she held silence cradled to her heart.

“Do you know,Gaia,” I began, hoping to draw her out, hoping to touch the pain palpable on her dry, cracked body. “Do you know,” I said again, “the Mayan word for tumor means solid stone?”

She sighed again.

“Last week,” I continued, “I drove through one of your valleys. On either side of me brown, barren hills marked my passage. ‘I thirst,’ I heard them whisper. They brought to mind parched lips of the dying waiting for a kiss of water, fearing a lick of flame. Back then I gave comfort. I gave water. I gave hope. Today I have nothing to offer.”

I felt a tremor, heard another sigh. I waited for a tear, but there was none.

We sat together in deepest silence yet a while longer. In the distance I heard the howl of a coyote, the call of crickets. Together Earth and  I sat in quiet thought, waiting, hoping.

At last Earth turned and faced me. “When you, my children weep,” she said, “I will join them.”

While parts of the world are experiencing significant storms, in the West we are faced with a serious drought. I am near the San Andreas fault at right now and we experience a good number of temblors, most of them we don’t even feel. Just moments ago, as I wrote this, as if to respond, we felt a small earthquake that rattled the windows and shutters…Earth shuddered perhaps!

Written for and linked to Sam’s prompt over at dVerse Meeting the Bar where he challenges us to write Narrative Poetry. Drop by and check it out. The doors open at 3:00 PM EST.

Leonnyes Z to A Challenge: “D” is for Door

Doorways. The ruined church of St Mary in Arde...

Image via Wikipedia

Submitted to Leonnyes Z to A Challenge: http://leonnyes.wordpress.com/

“D” is for Door

May I be an unlocked door,
receive the gifts that the Universe
is rushing to bestow.

Open my life to grief and joy,
dancing, singing songs
with wordless melodies.

When the gate is open just a crack
Divine Life surges in, waves
flood empty spaces.

The free flow of sounds, ideas,
people, grace, lives touching one another
expand the boundaries of a limited

perspective. Senses are the portal
of the body. See, touch, taste
the experience of each blessed moment.

You stand upon the Sacred Threshold.
Wait for the Bridegroom to bid you enter.