In order to heal from death
my child,
you must mourn,
and to do so properly,
in order to deal with the pain,
you must plunge a knife,
relieving the deepest ache of loss,
death is not in vain,

Cutting the **** deeper into your chest,

As I'm still breathing,
wise one,
I say alright,

Looking down at my lungs,
taking in some necessary air,
letting go of all my useless despair,

I'm amazed to still be alive,
& hoping to just simply survive,
with such life threatening wounds,

I take one last deep breath,

I remove the beating heart,
look at it pulsing in my palm,
dripping in cardinal red blood,
staining my skin,

I pull away a hand,
& I examine the sticky fingertips,
smear it on my face,
it's my war paint
mixed in with white clay,
right along with your ashes,

I am prepared to go into battle,

I am a warrior,
I would remove my fingertips
for such an important death,
as I make distinctive markings,
on your body,
so that I can find you again,
and lie with you,
your most,
beloved,

I prepare
many,
special,
& important things,
to take with you on the long journey,

You will reach the end,
at the long fork in the Milky Way,
3 days to get there,

And as you lie out in the sweet grass hills,
to talk to the children,
or become a medicine rock,
to heal the deeply wounded,

While I sing an endless mournful song,
& cut off my beautiful hair,
bleed again,
as I cut my thighs,
with a sharp rock,

I am stomping the prairie grass flat,
dancing in circles,
to the pounding drums,
yipping into the night,

I am chasing the dead,

I attach a rope to my wounds,
swing from them,
embracing the pain,
visions given
in the implications,
as music is drumming,

I close my eyes to see the flames
shaking my hands to the dancing licks,
my feet keep moving
find the beat,
the rhythm of life,

Extract the broken parts of my mind,
as some of your essence sinks,
back into your beautiful bones,

As I travel to the edge of loneliness,
as I try to find the end of it,

All souls eventually travel East,
to this paradise,

A lonely spirit tells me,
get on your knees
ask into the deep
wail into the pain,
lean in,
feel it,
retrieve it,
begin to even believe it,

Then pound an angry drum,
dear child
relieve it,

You must,
rail against time,
as you trust,
as you fly into the night sky,
in a blinded rage
write it all down
then gently turn again,
a page,
it's alright to cry,
& no,
this is not goodbye
just break down,
get hysterical,
scream at the night,
let it out child,
howl at that moon,
ask again & again of why,
run through the house,
with no where to go,
go crazy,

& then,
once your heart is healed,
you just come back.

Cherie Nolan © 2016

a sextillion tons of sea above me  
I am watchful sentinel, in the trench
Mariana--what strange creatures visit,
in this world without light  

day or night matters not, here,
where pressures are beyond measure
yet these beings glide by, more drifting
dreams than sluggish flesh  

my neighbors yet belch fire,
steam, and black cream from their bellies
as I did in my youth, but
I am now silent  

and though I have perfect recall
of all that has ever happened, I am crevice  
without the crease of time, and remember
not one sorrowful thing

How do you measure
What can't be seen
The heart of a man
The in of between
The conscience that follows
When something's done wrong
How do you measure
The depth of a poem

How do you measure
The day you must face
If it's taken for granted
If it's given in grace
Or measure a seed
That has yet to show growth
How do you measure
What you do not know

How do you measure
The hour before late
The width of a shoulder
Where a tear is laid
The inkling of an idea
The moment it's made
How do you measure
Love before it's given away

How do you measure
The chill of the wind
The guilt of the pleasure
That comes from within
The sliver of light
Before the sun has it's say
How do you measure
The end of the day

you will go your way
despite my protests
no use lamenting
what was never promised
the sun rides low the horizon
soon it will not clear the treetops
storms gather in the northern sea
needled wind to scattered seed
hoary frost on yellowed grass
dark leaves in mirrored puddles
a suspended death
crystalline and indeterminate
there is no fire hot enough
to stave off the first chill
of a careless winter
the numb hibernating sleep
soft gray melting days
the desperate wish
to regain summer