a teeny tiny
whited-out blank space,
the tenuous boundary that separates,
higher man from untamed beast,
so powerful when respected,
the crowning hallmark of human acclamation
we all do wear by right of birth and breathe


you see it right?

that invisible peaceful white
spatial, tiny yet palatial dot that separates
us from rack and ruin,
the mighty differential pause between

in civility and incivility

come not to preach or harangue,
my counsel kept within the
between beats of a mournful drum,
respectfully and slowly banged

each silent separation a prayerful plea,
the inserted peacekeepers of our spoken words,
employ well those powerful pauses that refresh
the speaker and the listener so well

leave behind your
self-righteous disbelief in others' beliefs,
that morphs into no toleration,
an arrogant surety,
that surely the ****-ytical results of
your thoughtful processes,
inevitability correct and brook no resistance

the shrill strumpets
of either side
confidently worship at no church
but to the false gods
of their own mirrored reflection,
who smiles back approvingly
at those who scream the loudest...

outlaw the outrage of your rage,
come to my white clothed table,
put aside the wrath of overbearing,
represent your disparate conclusions
with harmonious, breathable pauses
to reflect and respect
our distinctive and distinguished differences

no one ever lost a reasoned argument
that began with a considered, well tempered

good morning

what has this to do with
only love poetry?

*well, everything...for you must love thy neighbor
as you love yourself

~

she’s a heart that is breaking,
craquelure in life's painting;
a field full of fissures,
a clouded water cistern;
the age-darkened oils,
on a canvas fading,
where sadness and aching,
in blankets of grieving lie.

she’s discovered from whence
come her friends;
those who tell her it’s
time to bring to an end,
like it’s a cake in the oven
or one’s therapy session...
any longer and they
cannot understand why.

she is grateful for those who
give space for bereavement;
who know grief doesn’t flow
on a timer or season.
but is more like a river
that spills to the sea;
though it often flows free,
there are days it runs dry.

she has learned in her heart
there's no faucet for tears,
there’s no way to escape
her soul that’s been pierced;
from her skin to her marrow,
a-ccumulus sorrow, wears
an inescapable furrow; brings
a seasonal rain to her eye.

her only transgression
this lifelong expression,
as she yearns for the essence
of what she has lost;
to her this unbearable cost.
’tis a debt without gift,
greater pain can’t exist;
yet will bear 'til her final goodbye.

this then a grace,
like an eternal embrace;
as a sky cover parting,
an internal departing,
momentary pathway to heaven;
there may be no cure for craquelure,
no end to her pain he can find,
yet he can gift her his peace of mind.

~

*post script.

cra·que·lure
kraˈklo͝or,ˈkrakˌlo͝or/
noun- a network of fine cracks
in the paint or varnish of a painting.

this is part of a small collection of poems i have written for my wife each anniversary of her loss.  for the coming anniversary i began a meditation and reflection on pain and our aversion to it.  we have become a world uncomfortable with pain to which we have no answer;  pain that a pill or a therapy session cannot fix.  unable to know how to stop it, we fall prey to trying to either ignore it or stifle it.   yet pain is the beginning of compassion, a vital human emotion that is our answer to suffering.

black can be two things:
nothing
or everything.
black can tell you stories
or stare at you in silence.
black can be the depths of hell
or the limitless universe.
you can get lost in its darkness
or be found in its unparalleled dimensions.

black can be cold and idle
or etch an agonizing fire in your heart.
it can invite you for dinner
or devour you whole.
you can hear your blood rushing in its quiet
or be haunted by the resident banshee.

you can fall in love under the swirls of black ink when your tears touch the wet brush strokes
and you can lose yourself in the intricacy of her black pupils at midnight under the moon.
but you can also look death in the eyes and submit yourself to it
you can feel your heart blackening with the poison of heartbreak and grief.
you can feel the raging sun and the crumbling constellations if you close your eyes hard enough.
thunder jolts through your body like lightning on live wire
intensity builds up leaving  you breathless but begging for more.

black can be the moment you took your first breath
and black can be the moment you take your last.