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Grace Spalding Nov 2018
To each of us is given a treasure
A talent, a gift, for good or for ill.
Yet squandered, it festers, rotting, impure;
Waste, unless given of loving free will.
It's tempting to hide it; easier, sure.
There are those who'd exploit it, mock it, and laugh
But fearful withdrawal is never the cure.
And those who would scorn it don't matter by half.
So try everything! Paint, write, dance, sing songs.
The world waits for you, a gleaming blank slate
The more that you try, your language belongs,
That secret soul language only we can create.
So on to the clumsiness, embrace defeat
For in that strange newness is your true heartbeat.
Grace Spalding Nov 2018
The risk is too weighty; the loss, too immense.
The words, once relinquished, maybe not worth the expense.
Part of me wonders, but that small fragile hope
Knows that if I'm mistaken, all that remains is to cope.
So now, I will wait. Bide my time, bite my tongue,
Like the coward I am. But there is still breath in my lungs...
Grace Spalding Nov 2018
It probably hurts the most because it wasn't about me.
The squish, the warm glow, starkly empty.
That wisdom, the wit, the caring concern,
My unheeded affections already in urn.
I fostered ignorant hope, tentative dreams,
I shudder to think of all my unfruitful schemes.
There's wounded pride, yes. A small sadness, too.
But now I just pray it was unknown to you.
Grace Spalding Apr 2014
There’s something about the lonely hours,
Just you and me, our space overlapping.
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.

No passion-filled debate, no vying powers,
Lazy destiny dreams, eschewing plans or mapping.
There’s something about the lonely hours.

Past today, the future glowers,
But reserve this sacred instant for reflection, recapping.
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.

The earth is straining, injustice towers,
Insidious corruption, pain and deceit chafing, chapping.
There’s something about the lonely hours.

The darkness consumes, seconds become hours,
Sorrow lurks at hand, irksome insecurities tapping.
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.

Yet, peace resounds, the evil cowers.
Hope, the thing with feathers, quietly, resiliently flapping.
There’s something about the lonely hours,
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.
Grace Spalding Apr 2014
Smoky tendrils waft out now and then,
shards of discomfort,
fragments of rage.
Yet for now I maintain my peaceful facade:
the optimist, thinker,
the dreamer.
The musician, listener,
the leader.
But I do wonder what will become of the blaze of words I don't say.
Grace Spalding Jun 2013
Time’s ominous perpetual precipice looms,
Darkly beckoning with gilded motives.
The student’s curse worming insidiously throughout the best intentions
The enemy’s ticking fingers foreshadow their fate,
But like blinded deer, we frolic obliviously,
Blissfully remiss in our duty as the forgiven.
Twilight nears, but we are still frozen in the sun.
Grace Spalding Jun 2013
Navy blue marble mornings,
Still clinging to the shiver of darkness.
Aching in my fingers and ears
Evidencing the zephyr's unkind caress.
An oppressive silence devouring cars and footsteps,
Pets and conversation.
Yet it is embraced, the stillness a balm,
Lending wise council within the maelstrom of thought.
Remarkably conducting the chaos into a concerto.
City stars keeping a staccato beat on the horizon,
A silent purpose statement in the ebb of the valley.
Ay, there's the rub.
How does one free the oppressed who are convinced they are free?
Like elephants bound in twine,
They are potently capable,
Needing only to see past sin's ostentatious facade.
But like the caged bird, they celebrate premature freedom.
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