Rests invisible in the hot blood's rise,
Unused before barrage of rage and alibis,
Silently outwaits the soul's angry sighs.

Wisdom, too, holds knowing tongue,
Content to hold forgiveness' hand, while long
The cooling blood is covered with their soothing song.

When right mind o'er-takes the anguished brooding whole
Wisdom and Forgiveness emerge, envelop, and enfold,
Release the hatred, salve the bitter, broken soul.

So find the wounded soul's release;
Wisdom's Forgiveness bringeth Peace
Provides the way to life's new lease.

Grief, catlike inward burrows,
Circles in some lonely spot,
Settles drearily to purr,
Content to rest upon my lot.

I shall not live with grief,
Nor grief hold me, for long,
For life is made for living,
And the living must move on.

The quickest route through grieving
I'm thinking I have found:
Accept the gift of thanking
Those who've circled me around.

Friends who share my sorrow
Don't force, "Seek brighter days."
They know perhaps tomorrow,
I'll raise my paean of praise.

For memories of loved ones,
Who showed me how to live,
For work and funds and sustenance,
Abundances for me to give.

For those who live around me
Host sadnesses, I know;
Because I've lived my miseries,
Others won’t suffer theirs alone.

For faith, for hope, for love abide
While this chest holdeth breath
To spark full joyful fire inside
And route the griefs of death.

"As good as any," the weary traveler said,
"For us to set our burdens down, and rest our heads."
Stopped they to ease their feet along a winding road
But just a little, then, and picking up their loads,
They journeyed onward toward a slowly setting sun
Assuming miles stretched far ahead ere they were done.
"This place," she whispered, as she held his withered hand,
"As good as any," though not the resting they had planned.
"You wait, while I go on ahead," her whisper sighed,
His resting place a shallow, the winding road beside.
Suns rose and set a little while while she trudged on,
The hazy past a trail; eternity beyond.

That this walnut skulled
Gray matter audaciously decrees
Mastery of the Universe
While encaged in a home
Perched precariously
Atop a tottering structure
Of flesh and bones
Befuddles the wise.

Shall the ***
Question the potter?

Shall a man
Challenge the Creator?

Hubris bound in cage of bone,
Claims power that is God's alone.

Who is the master of my soul?
Who is the Captain of my fate?

Bow low this mind in fragile bowl
Humbly restrain my foolish soul.

Our Mother's gone;
We are alone.

Her body lies here,
Husk and cob,
Soul's wrapper, shed;

Her hands

Hushed in the presence of death
I see her hands,
hold them one last time.
fingers that cooked
thousands of meals,
mended jeans,
darned socks,
scrubbed floors,
cleaned and cleaned,
and cleaned;
turned Scripture pages,
mended my wounds.


Her feet
Cooling now,
But a little warm,
Remind me:
old canvas work shoes,
shuffling walk
pigeon-toed
(I walk like her)

Her hands and feet remind me:
foot rubs,
back rubs,
often with a song...
While we were growing up;
later on, when she was old
she'd ask me to raise my foot
so she could give me
a "reflexology" treatment.
I never refused.

In the stillness of death,
I grasp her feet,
Give them one last squeeze.

"Mom, I owe you thousands."

But she is gone.

The current rush
Against external, eternal
Truth

produces a plethora of mini “truths”
clamoring for the power
of mass acceptance.

Results?

Chaos,
confusion,
fear,
manipulation.

Welcome to the funhouse.

Come sit with me
On this stone of sorrow;
Weep, lest I weep alone.
We may have laughing again...
Tomorrow;
But today, I'll rest
On this sorrowing stone,
Together with you
Or alone.