The stranger
  has their story
   to tell
  which we've
  never heard before
  those of whom we know
  have long been repeated
  and exhausted
  they delight us
  no more--


now we sense a new
and vibrant voice
as though from
some foreign soil
with its unique
and warm timbre
whether the tale told
is of sorrows or joys-

we step back
to contemplate
and a deep chord
strikes our heart
and we are
momentarily transformed-

in that moment
of serendipitous encounter
we discover
a mysterious bond
has been born
which will linger
into the distant future
long after
the stranger has gone.

I’m in a contest I can’t win
Or even come in second.
My bird has flown from the streetlight arm
And taken promise with it.

Another lands and then departs
To mock my hopeful prayers
The sky teems with symbolic fowl
But I can’t suss their meaning.

A big one flew straight over me
But I can’t read its message.
Was it promising good health
Or telling me it’s sorry

That I’ll only get just what I have
To get me through tomorrow
And if I am not strong enough
The game will then be over.

Why are birds the messengers
In answer to my pleas
They send me signals I can’t read
And I walk on in darkness.
ljm

When we first moved in,
The landowner said that
The old crabapple tree in
The yard hasn't yielded
Its fruit for many a year.

The executioner was going
To end its life, but we
Convinced the judge to
Grant a stay of execution
Regarding the beheading
So we could make a valiant
Effort at rehabilitating
The desolate old soul.

All because of a last minute
Reprieve, that unproductive
Tree has been rejuvenated
And regenerated; once
Again bearing fruit for
Many a year for us to eat
And share with others.

The enormity of pain
of having to leave behind everything that I have ever known
its been time, but the grief aches in my bones.
I miss my old life desperately
even though it was filled with swords of pain and abuse
I miss my" family" my "friends."
my naievity about this hateful ideology
it was easier to live in some ways.
But also much more hellish
now I am a lot more at peace and so much healthier
and so very very lonely.
i have no real friends and no one in my life
the lonlieness i feel it, eating me alive as well as my depression.
They are my closest friends.
And here i am at 28 and all i do is grieve
grieve for everything!
and i couldn't even put pen to paper for months,
i feel like a sore thumb
in a society that is morally depraved psychopathic and psychotic.
In a world that is uncaring for people like me
That lacks a Basic Understanding
of the chronically ill chronically mentally in pain.
Yet still here i am trying
finally receiving help that i have needed,
prayed for and searched for
for years.
So why do i feel worse ?
probably for finally feeling the enormity of everything.
That is hitting me all at once.
The enormity of pain
Of leaving religion ideologies
Families,
an old country that i still long for
But i know that i can't go back to.
Of community
Of old age traditions.
But here i am lovingly and hatingly picking myself up,
painting writing reading learning
healing
learning to piece together my own religious meaning,
my own way of performing it.

I still feel so lost and so in pain
but here are my feelings out on paper,
struggling screaming for so long to be seen in so so many ways.
In a world that is psychopathic and i feel that it in itself
has lost all meaning to its madness,
and truth is stranger than fiction
and it is what most avoid and don't like hearing.
So i feel often at times
That i must hide myself out in the open,
un -belonging
holding the keys,
the bearer of witnessing
Horrors
Processing all that i have lived through, in this land
and the other land of the forefathers.
writing about my stories of grief © Jan 26, Ari

Fumble, falter, fail to fight.
The dusk is here, relieved by night.

Doubting, dreading, doubling down.
A shadow takes the hardened ground.

Careful, costly, a cloud at night.
Just can’t seem to get my head right.

Open, owning, and owing to
A pillar of strength forged by two.

Critters crawling, comfort found.
Perhaps this thing just turned around.

Honest, honoured, hailed the fight.
Cannot seem to get my head right.

Ejected, dejected, deflated flat.
Whoever heard of a hero like that?

Awkward, agile, always aware.
Too many thoughts, but not one to spare.

Pointed, pictured, pursued the light.
But I can’t seem to get my head right.

The longest, driest drought could not truly parch my lands.
So nourished are they by your warm, rich waters.

The coldest, harshest winter could not **** the life in my burrows.
So heated are they by your soft, cozy down.

The deepest, darkest night could not deny my eyes sight.
So filled are they by your radiant light.

So though the surface is cracked, and bodies barely stir,
Though my hands must reach out to find their way.

Though hope is far in the distance, and perhaps only a mirage.
Though words may come slowly, and meaning is a scavenger hunt,

There is life below.
There is life within.
There is life, mine bound to yours.
We begin. We end. We begin.