So there's this girl...

And her name is Misery.
_____

My heart was boxed
I had hid the key
Until the lock she picked
granted entry

Her hands were warm
When they grabbed my heart
But when she released,
The thing fell apart

I found some pieces,
Bound them all
My love looked away,
With no care at all

So here I am,
Still gathering pieces
Red, ripped, and torn,
Please hold them, Jesus

All it takes
Is the thought of her
To see her smile
Through teary blur
To hear her voice,
So sweet and warm,
Throws me right back out
Into the raging storm
Of thundering pain,
And pouring tears
O, if love can die,
It must take years

So here I am,
Still scrambling for shreds
Of my cold, beating heart,
Torn, ******, and red

But I know there's a Mender
That will stitch every thread
Of my heart back to whole
For I trust what God said
I'll wait for a Mender
Who'll bring peace to my soul
At God's nod, she'll come fill this
Jagged, gaping black hole

In time, He'll send a Mender
Who will heal every wound
She will mend with a smile
That's as bright as the moon
In time, He'll send a Mender
To repair every seam
When I gaze into her eyes
I will witness Heaven's gleam

I can’t recommend the mender,
his mind finally took the toll.
Nobody could crack the mystery
behind the mender’s cracked soul.

If you cannot heal the healer
then just tell your life to heel,
for speeding kills you quicker
than the waiting ever will.

Someone once told me
to mend a broken person
breaks the mender them self

I tried to rearrange their broken heart
But as I reassembled it
The shards of glass sunk into my skin
As if it was heavily pored.

My emotions fell down like hail
on a harsh winter's day. However
I felt the rain wash over me
Sending chills through my heart
Soaking me for all eternity

No one gave me a towel
To dab away the imbibed feelings
of everything, from love to hate
to lust and lies

Someone once told me
To mend a broken person
Breaks the mender them self

1.
Mother, my Mary Gray,
once resident of Gloucester
and Essex County,
a photostat of your will
arrived in the mail today.
This is the division of money.
I am one third
of your daughters counting my bounty
or I am a queen alone
in the parlor still,
eating the bread and honey.
It is Good Friday.
Black birds pick at my window sill.
Your coat in my closet,
your bright stones on my hand,
the gaudy fur animals
I do not know how to use,
settle on me like a debt.
A week ago, while the hard March gales
beat on your house,
we sorted your things: obstacles
of letters, family silver,
eyeglasses and shoes.
Like some unseasoned Christmas, its scales
rigged and reset,
I bundled out gifts I did not choose.
Now the houts of The Cross
rewind. In Boston, the devout
work their cold knees
toward that sweet martyrdom
that Christ planned. My timely loss
is too customary to note; and yet
I planned to suffer
and I cannot. It does not please
my yankee bones to watch
where the dying is done
in its usly hours. Black birds peck
at my window glass
and Easter will take its ragged son.
The clutter of worship
that you taught me, Mary Gray,
is old. I imitate
a memory of belief
that I do not own. I trip
on your death and jesus, my stranger
floats up over
my Christian home, wearing his straight
thorn tree. I have cast my lot
and am one third thief
of you. Time, that rearranger
of estates, equips
me with your garments, but not with grief.

2.
This winter when
cancer began its ugliness
I grieved with you each day
for three months
and found you in your private nook
of the medicinal palace
for New England Women
and never once
forgot how long it took.
I read to you
from The New Yorker, ate suppers
you wouldn't eat, fussed
with your flowers,
joked with your nurses, as if I
were the balm among lepers,
as if I could undo
a life in hours
if I never said goodbye.
But you turned old,
all your fifty-eight years sliding
like masks from your skull;
and at the end
I packed your nightgowns in suitcases,
paid the nurses, came riding
home as if I'd been told
I could pretend
people live in places.

3.
Since then I have pretended ease,
loved with the trickeries of need, but not enough
to shed my daughterhood
or sweeten him as a man.
I drink the five o' clock martinis
and poke at this dry page like a rough
goat. Fool! I fumble my lost childhood
for a mother and lounge in sad stuff
with love to catch and catch as catch can.
And Christ still waits. I have tried
to exorcise the memory of each event
and remain still, a mixed child,
heavy with cloths of you.
Sweet witch, you are my worried guide.
Such dangerous angels walk through Lent.
Their walls creak Anne! Convert! Convert!
My desk moves. Its cavr murmurs Boo
and I am taken and beguiled.
Or wrong. For all the way I've come
I'll have to go again. Instead, I must convert
to love as reasonable
as Latin, as sold as earthenware:
an equilibrium
I never knew. And Lent will keep its hurt
for someone else. Christ knows enough
staunch guys have hitched him in trouble.
thinking his sticks were badges to wear.

4.
Spring rusts on its skinny branch
and last summer's lawn
is soggy and brown.
Yesterday is just a number.
All of its winters avalanche
out of sight. What was, is gone.
Mother, last night I slept
in your Bonwit Teller nightgown.
Divided, you climbed into my head.
There in my jabbering dream
I heard my own angry cries
and I cursed you, Dame
keep out of my slumber.
My good Dame, you are dead.
And Mother, three stones
slipped from your glittering eyes.
Now it's Friday's noon
and I would still curse
you with my rhyming words
and bring you flapping back, old love,
old circus knitting, god-in-her-moon,
all fairest in my lang syne verse,
the gauzy bride among the children,
the fancy amid the absurd
and awkward, that horn for hounds
that skipper homeward, that museum
keeper of stiff starfish, that blaze
within the pilgrim woman,
a clown mender, a dove's
cheek among the stones,
my Lady of first words,
this is the division of ways.
And now, while Christ stays
fastened to his Crucifix
so that love may praise
his sacrifice
and not the grotesque metaphor,
you come, a brave ghost, to fix
in my mind without praise
or paradise
to make me your inheritor.

You're the light
In a sea of reeds.
Salt clinging to hair
Bubbles kissing eyelids.
You're the grains in my toes,
Crashing euphoria.
A wave
Returning when the moon calls the tides.
You're a feather
Without a reason to fly
Or bird to pay homage.
Skin of a seal
Sliding peacefully;
secrets of past storms
leaving bellies weathered.
You're the mender of flesh
Torn on tiny pebbles.
Each budding heart
Back to the sea,
To mend in the only arms
Guaranteed to remember my name.

You were the Barbie jeep engineer.
You were the 5-card pinochle player.
You were the gripe to do the dishes.
You were the patient mall bench sitter.

You were Elvis Presley records and
paper backed crime novels.
You were my new antivirus software.
You were the chatter in the middle of an
NCIS episode.
You were the "It's okay, sweetie" on the
other end of the phone.

You were the voice of every bathtime storybook.
You were the baking soda on my first wasp sting.
You were the green Ford Escort parked
outside my middle school every afternoon.

You were the loudest clap at my graduation.
You were the sticky caramel corn crumbs in the
living room that held the place together.
You were the laughter

You were the toolkit when my pictures hung crooked.
You were the cornerback baker, the pecan pie maker,
dance recital seat saver and the road trip driver.
You were the puppy-dog pill-giver and the
broken heart mender.

You were the church goer and the goodness seeker.
You were the black-haired teaser and the
very best secret keeper.
You were a prideful wig wearer and
wheelchair rider.

You were a cancer fighter.

You were my first call.
You still are.

She's  beautiful  in her own way,
She  smiles  even when she's having a bad day,
She can be  delicate  but she's still   strong ,
She's not  proud ,she admits her wrong,
Words don't bring her down,
She knows noone is worth turning her smile into a frown,
She doesn't look down on others,
She feels how it would be like to be one of their mothers,
She speaks her  mind ,
She believes in it there's wisdom someone could find.
She's a  hardworker ,
And she wouldn't ever want to be a heartbreaker,

But a heart mender she would be.
She can pray..
She's a woman,a great one.

I
--
The LORD is asking, “Do you trust Me, child?”
And surely He is worthy of all trust,
but visceral reactions oft’ seem just
in keeping soul’s anxieties well riled.
While panic, shame and dread stir doubting winds,
obsessive, tight, compulsive thoughts pour fuel
into this downward spiraling boil of gruel
where toxic interactions breed more sins.
So for relationships I feel unfit,
and now old interests die and pleasures wane,
as each new hope in Earth’s good brings fresh pain,
where dark depression’s presently my bit.
Yet in this wilderness I hear God call,
“Child, look to Me. I am your ALL in all.”

II
--
I meditate upon the word of God
to heal a mind that’s broken from the fall,
and lying in morn’s bed I now recall
the former paths of fullness I have trod.
I clear the course of tangling debris
that fogs perspective’s distance-viewing sight
and clogs the narrow way which lets in light,
so with God’s truth I’m able to agree.
I gaze toward the future that is sure,
to glory that is promised out of trial.
I push through lying voices of denial,
rememb’ring my inheritance secure.
So healing first begins by sizing scope,
for in true measure I can grasp true hope.

III
---
Long sheltered in the recesses of mind
on pedestals that overshadow truth
are lies which I have entertained since youth
like tape recordings stuck on forced rewind.    
There‘s something of appeal in misbelief,
some comforting, perverted, dressed-up face
which keeps foul strongholds rooted into place
and lets such rotten seedlings harvest grief.  
But I must choose to undermine their message,
uncovering deception’s hidden lairs
whose cultivation grounds for growing tares
leave roadblocks to integrity’s safe passage.
God’s probing, piercing words—what precious gifts!—
can excavate, expose and extract myths.

IV
---
I apprehend these truths in David’s psalm:
“I’m fearfully and wonderfully made,”
and all my days of life are firmly laid
within the sovereign care of God’s own palm.
And yet another voice keeps creeping out.
“You’re too unfit for blessed community,
hence from belonging full immunity
is your dim lot,” says paralyzing Doubt.
For ‘gainst the Word that says I‘m rightly hewn
rub all the bristling edges of myself,
but would one set forever on a shelf
a Bösendorfer piano out of tune?
No, value is a function of creation,
and He who made has promised restoration.

V
--
Restoration’s anchored in redemption,
and my redemption‘s grounded in God’s love.
Nowhere in far reaches man has thought of
could mind unfurl the breadth of such conception.
Sloshing, hesitating in the shallows,
I wander close to shore in Love‘s vast sea.
Then from the swell I hear a coaxing plea
to dive into the deeper wake of hallows.
What‘s this weight that pins my frame from racing
toward His unknown billows of delight?
Do I not trust that He will clasp me tight,
help me bear the fiercest waves I’m facing?
What guile of devils am I heeding here
which keeps me bound by paralyzing fear?

VI
---
Disheartened by my want for firm resolve
to swim toward agápē’s unplumbed depths
for int’macy with Him who paid my debts—
the only One from sin who can absolve,
I wander, wond‘ring what I’ve missed to see
within my comprehension of Christ‘s love
when He would vacate majesty above
and suffer cruelest death to set me free.
They stripped Him, flogged Him, spit, pulled out His beard,
then pressed a crown of thorns down on His head.
They nailed Him to rough cross to leave for dead—
Creator of the world now by it jeered.
In love this traitor by her King was served:
Christ Jesus bore God‘s wrath which I deserved!

VII
----
Considering what labors Christ performed
to buy my freedom off sin’s slav’ry block
that of His fullness, with Him, I could walk
in resurrected life (not just reformed),
can I not trust that He will see me through
each trial, tribulation, sorrow, loss
when He would not forsake me at the cross
but carried all my grief and suff‘ring too?
And just as death‘s cold grave could not contain
my Savior but gave way to watch Him rise,
whatever loss my path has to comprise
shall work for me eternal glorious gain.
So while my courage may still be in lack,
the settled thing is there’s no turning back.

VIII
-----
Wading through fresh tidal pools of mercy
along a piece of coast that‘s not too wide—
among the crags and caves where stragglers hide,
hoping to evade crowd controversy—
I know I‘ll have to move on before long.
But in the warm meanwhile of the day,
I kneel to rest; and as I start to pray,
my heart begins to open to a song—
a gentle, soothing lullaby I’ve known
sung to the tune of ‘Eventide‘ as hymn,
reminder that this life is fading, dim
but that in Christ I never walk alone.
And as I raise the words, “Abide with me…,”
here comes my Shepherd, walking by the sea.

IX
---
What now is this waylaying, sin-sick soul?
Diversional winds from cliffside descend.
Where‘s pressing fire my devotions attend?
Brain‘s robbed of sanity, sleep, self-control.
Jesus comes near numb heart in distraction
and bids me again to clean deadwood out.
Jesus, I‘m desperate, drowning in doubt!
Help me expel what‘s needing subtraction!
Discipline, prudence, wisdom, contentment
can work to restore both body and brain,
while worship will lift locked heart from restraint—
its untethering from woe’s resentment.
I won‘t, without wisdom, taste truest Love,
yet Love holds true keys to wisdom above.

X
--
Mottling mind’s hazed subconscious sockets—
bedecked by ego’s restless crave for fill—
infections grow to permeate my will,
ladening, with dross, affection‘s pockets.
Foul seepage soon coagulates to plaque,
forces clefts which weaken my foundation,
foments psyche’s stormed disintegration
till half-light’s flushing falls to midnight‘s black.
Yet amid murk‘s rotting, rank confusion
with ev‘ry faculty succumbed to rift,
My Shepherd plucks me fiercely from the cliff,
tending thorn-torn blight with Love‘s ablution.
Healing, though, requires my surrender—
all cooperation I can lend 'her.'

XI
---
Jesus asked a question at Bethesda,
the pool by which an invalid was lain,
for thirty-eight lost years left in his pain—
twisted, timed, tormenting, teared siesta.
“Do you desire to be made well?” He asked.
“I’ve none to help me!” was the plaintive cry,
then Jesus spoke miraculous reply
that to get up and walk the man was tasked.
That’s not to say all healing will be found
within this present life of ills and woes,
but still I hear Christ probing through the throes
if I am truly willing to be sound.
Or would I rather lie on crippling bed,
an invalid of spirit, heart and head?

XII
----
Shuffling through some past miscalculations
surrounding toxic breakage of the vines
that ought secure the healthy bound’ry lines  
guarding interpersonal relations—
rememb‘ring my susceptibility
to ego-shuttled, codependent err‘rs
which strain to manage others‘ own affairs
and so invert responsibility—
I ponder if I‘ll ever grow to learn
proper seeds for sowing mutual trust
with vital tools for gently sanding rust
to help stave off a bondship‘s breaking-burn.
One thing I know, that trusting in the LORD
steers love‘s impetus to carry forward.

XIII
-------
“I’m not enough and yet too much,” I've read.
Succinctly that describes my current angst,
and I can‘t justify to war against
these arguments which whirl around my head.
I’ve been told, “You’re just a little intense,”
by many people, not just one or two,
and this they voice clangs manifestly true,
as gaping holes defect my bound‘ry fence.
Voluminous in content and in force,
bestowing as prized gifts what isn‘t sought
or wanted by those for whom gifts are brought,
I falter in my need to change set course.
And where it comes to giving what‘s desired,
real competence seems found to have expired.

XIV
-----
Someone wrote, “true soul mate is a mirror“—
like limelight they‘ll reveal your unseen faults.
Where no one else delights to search your vaults,
“soul mate“ renders time to be apt hearer.
It matters not, was said, that they don‘t stay,
so long as they‘re an agent for reform—
the one who makes you desp‘rate to transform
by breaking heart and making ego fray.
Danger lies in nuanced underpinnings.
I thought I‘d found my soul mate in abuse
and used “he needs my fuel“ as excuse
to take a twisted game to extra innings.
Here I’ll grant these crazed imaginations
were at core demonic machinations.

XV
-----
Casting down romantic schoolgirl notions
that sin-drenched bonds might fashion souls complete,
I drag bewitching grails to Jesus’ feet—
spurning now to drink past guile‘s potions.
As I linger longer in His presence,
I‘m freshly bathed from marring guilt and shame,
reminded I‘m made whole in Jesus‘ Name—
partaker in the fullness of His essence.
Identified eternally with Christ,
secured by His unfailing love through grace,
one day I‘ll walk perfected face-to-face
with Him from whom true life is all-sufficed.
And as I muse, I taste true heart‘s desire—
rekindling, renewed with holy fire.

XVI
-----
Attitude is prime, determinant hinge
on which the door of restoration swings—
deciding what response subconscious brings
and on which morsels mind should bestly binge.
Plenty is dependent on perspective.
Mountain, plain or valley alter sight 
and size by which is measured present, plight.
Simply switching lens can be corrective.
In Christ, Ephesians tells me, I‘ve been raised,
seated with Him in the heavenly realm—
positioned by the One who steers the helm
that Father, Son and Spirit would be praised!
Worship, like a rudder, sets the outlook
to keep me highly grounded in God‘s Book.

XVII
------
Why should I to the worship of false gods
surrender my outlook frivolously?
Idols grab first gaze notoriously,
rob joy as will‘s defenses yield heart‘s nods.
What then? Can I suppose I might steal back
a measure of exuberance through more
skewed genuflecting to gilt calf before—
itself beleaguered, plagued by woeful lack?
Now heed, wayfaring soul of mine, what‘s true:
Creation‘s bounty-goods will make you slave
and with sweet Siren‘s flutes your mind deprave
when to them you lend focus Christ is due.
Lay firm your eyes on Him—pure, restful bed,
cover, fuel, completer, Fountainhead.

XVIII
-------
Wandering down some cobbled, crowded street,
I‘m nowhere headed, rapt in mindless thought,  
and as I saunter south I happ‘ly spot
a friend long-lost but fiercely longed to meet.
Just up ahead, he’s mixed well in the throng
but might be caught if I push through and race!
Heartbeat quickens. Oh, to see his face,
this one with whom I’m sure I must belong!
Yet when I actually seize him and he turns,
I’m devastated, sunk. It isn’t him.
Then moping northbound—dazed, dejected whim—
I stumble on the One for whom heart burns!
How strange, as I had grappled, chased and shoved,
that I’d been running from the One I loved!

XIX
-----
He‘s reservoir for which parched spirit begs,
familial feast cast heart longs to attend,  
elixir fractured psyche craves, to mend,
secure foundation ‘neath soul‘s skittish legs.
Jesus is hearth fire, garden blooming,
joy‘s kiss that welcomes prodigals with tears,
arms’ tender brawn consoling weak ones‘ fears,
shelt‘ring lullaby as nightstorm‘s looming.
Who else can scatter stars, strew mountain snow,
to whet beloved‘s taste for pristine grace?
What other love’s like this, that He‘d embrace
excruciating death to grace bestow?
And best, most faithful lovers of this earth?—
dull pennies next to Christ‘s resplendent worth!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VOLUME II:
(** — XXXII) [Edited in 9/27-29/21]

**
----
Closing the door on chaining obsessions
requires some short-circuiting of thought
previously allowed to flow uncaught
and forge ever-deepening depressions.
Pathways in my brain can be rerouted
by changing interactions with my world,
observing what’s most easily unfurled—
presently what’s to five senses suited.
‘Mindfulness’ can be a Christian practice
and doesn’t have to rest on Buddha’s shelf—
“awak’ning non-existence of the self”—
or from unseen, eternal things distract us.
True mindfulness is found in gratitude—
joyful, eucharisteo attitude.

XXI
-----
A biblical version of ‘mindfulness‘
is found in 1 Thessalonians 5,
revealing as God’s will that saints should strive
for ever-prayerful joy and thankfulness.
Pond‘rous gratitude staves off resentment,
greed and pride. As was taught to Timothy,
what‘s created and giv‘n by God should be
received in sacred thanks with contentment.
Creation reflects God‘s bounteous glory
and demonstrates His loving grace and care,
so in same grace and glory we can share
each time we recognize Him in our story.
Ten thousand tiny gifts write each day‘s page,
and he who welcomes most is most like sage.

XXII
------
In restoration, elasticity
of mind is a factor to celebrate.
So please don‘t ever underestimate
the wonders of neuroplasticity.
New brainpaths form and old channels falter,
depending on what choices I might make.
Fresh experience of which I partake
will physically help my brain to alter.
Here‘s one great hope I must now remember:
What’s hardwired today can still be displaced,
and thoughts might soon flow on paths greenly graced,
as I feast my soul’s eyes on brain’s Mender.
Bent mindfulness toward Giver and His gifts
best brings joy‘s healing for my mental rifts.

XXIII
-------
Realizations that some obsessions
are desires to vicariously ride
the mindfulness of others who don‘t hide
their own keener sensory possessions,
aptly are aiding to turn my focus
from curiosity to understand
their thoughts, which often‘s led my heart-demand—
want to consume their minds‘ crops like locusts.
What I‘ve perceived as love, concern to know,
empathy for others‘ worlds internal,
might be more escape from mine external—
attempts to hide from life‘s real, present show.
Avoidance wears all sorts of vibrant masks
to keep me blinded to here-moments‘ tasks.

XXIV
-------
Viewing secondhand eviscerations,
as others spill their innards on the page,
may seem the safest way to heart engage—
surrogated life participation.
Substituting others‘ honed perceptions
where I ought learn observance of my own
will keep childlike experience ungrown,
smother creativity’s conceptions.
Social media’s pitfalls lie therein,
along with greater dangers lurking large.
Despite its many goods, there’s needed charge
that gorging on a good thing leads to sin.
Shutting website windows is like trailhead,
opening mountain path to higher tread.

XXV
------
I‘m learning to sit with anxiety
raised by self-denial of habit’s fix,
mindful how my heart solicits tricks  
to alternate for true society.
Discomfort speaks in volumes to soul’s ear
like smoke alarm alerting to a fire.
It tells me, “Quick, investigate! Inquire!
Please find the source of inner burning fear!”
Nervousness as friend might offer insight
if I can hear and listen to its warning,
objectively without the shame-filled scorning
that tends to follow panic-stricken plight.
Practice putting tension in glass cage
to monitor its undercurrent’s rage.

XXVI
-------
It’s time to preach a sermon to myself,
for fears are overtaking me in waves;
and spirit must combat what habit craves—
flesh seeking consolation in false pelf.
Scrutinize what’s underneath such worry.
Do I believe the LORD is still in charge
of details of my life and world at large?
Look to Him. Don’t yield to anxious hurry.
Do I believe He’s with me and He’s good,
a faithful Shepherd tending to each need?
Then look to Him. Don’t drown in fretting’s greed.
Christ’s sheep don’t have to look elsewhere for food.
Each wait is opportunity to grow,
for God has holy riches to bestow.

XXVII
--------
God’s character and sovereign wisdom hem
my life, as His responsibility.
No wrong will steal my true identity,
whatever slips or schemes might spill from men.
Christ’s Ruler over all, but do I let
Him fully reign as Master in my heart?
Do I acknowledge I’m His work of art
and purpose for His hammers, chisels get?
Intimacy and glory are the friends
to which His sanctifying lessons point
and meld together as love’s dovetail joint
whenever I surrender to these ends.
Soul, set your hope on grace to be revealed.
Entrust to God strain’s mysteries still sealed.

XXVIII
---------
LORD, HELP! Why is my mind so distracted?
And why then, letting it be drawn away
for half an hour, am I now okay
to let my compulsions be retracted?
Give in to let go feels like solution,
but know it only deepens the desire
for later curiosity‘s inquire—
grants no satisfying resolution.
Those thirty minutes mindfulness was lost,
yet could it be empowered by the fall,
as I look closer inside to recall
that giving way to habit bears great cost?
I won‘t grow discouraged by the setback
but seek to further understand self‘s lack.

XXIX
-------
Low-pitched, humming anxiousness was sitting
all day inside my torso‘s cavity.
Mindful sensing lent no gravity
to coax the stubborn squatter through outwitting.
Head was tired from too little sleeping,
so frankly seemed to coast and just make do.
Soul felt no fresh excitement by woods‘ view
and lacked bright energy for much guard keeping.
One moral of this story is night‘s rest
must become priority for healing.
Otherwise this shaky default feeling
will grow into another panicked crest.
Though it‘s no excuse to say I‘m tired,
it‘s clear reformed sleep habits are required.

***
------
Changing what’s practical opens a door
to transforming what’s spiritual, mental
and emotionally experiential.
Habit alterations might well restore
enough equilibrium of body,
restfulness, clarity, reason and time
to give me needed aid to better climb
above oppressive moods, both low and haughty.
“Early to bed, early to rise...”could be
one thing to make a world of difference
and welcome back some simple common sense,
to open up new space for setting free.
But for that discipline to take effect,
I’ll also have to curb the internet!

XXXI
-------
Every opportunity for worry
is greater opportunity to trust
that God behind the scenes is sanding rust
from parts of me where fear has made faith blurry.
Without unknowing-gusts to stir the pit
of nervousness inside my helplessness,
I might ne‘er seek my Shepherd‘s faithfulness
nor learn to wait on Him and with Him sit.
These are times of richest growing lessons
when I‘m reminded He is LORD, not me,
and that He works to draw in int‘macy
feeble souls to Him through stretching sessions.
Joy is knowing sure—head, heart and will—
He‘s ever whisp‘ring, “Child, come closer still.“

XXXII
--------
Recapping basic steps to take thus far:
Find sleep (which may mean need for melatonin
to counteract my haywire serotonin),
and overuse of internet I‘ll bar.
Then with restfulness bring mindful thinking—
keen noticing that‘s graced with gratitude
and sets a stronger skyward attitude,
buoys me up against fret‘s downward sinking.
More important still is meditation
upon the word of God‘s indicatives
which lay foundations for imperatives
to follow as prescriptive medication.
Most crucial element preventing fall
is fix my eyes on Jesus through it all!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

These eyes of mine
Have seen
Beyond the imaginary lines of being,

A broken heart mend over the written word shared by those whose wisdom has surpassed time,

Beautiful sunsets painted over gray lines by poets who know that you'll never know the true meaning of joy without a little pain paving the way.

I have wandered in the caves of those who dare to etch their souls on paper, and shun their thoughts to wondering eyes,

To give meaning to the lives of many, direction to the gypsey, and a mender for the torn,

Walked more than a mile in shoes of so many to find the quintessence of broken glasses, the epitome of troubled souls, and the essence of being,

Beautiful melodies that soothe the soul through the ears of a deaf man,

The rhythm of a heart in love that sickens the soul, invades the thoughts and leaves every inch of the body longing,

A memory of a love so precious, unforgettable that it's fragrance lingers still from a distant memory,

And when all is lost and plundered,
Your words are like a thread that sews patch after patch across my torn silhouette


It's a pleasure
To have read so many inspiring, beautiful and heartfelt poetry in here.

A Palette of Sunrise

Bronze spears waltz with pure aubergine
amid cauliflower cumulus –
gold touch-paper.

Sugar sprinkled wash with
candy pink bubble-burst
stains church spire and oak.

Saturated in spongy tangerine
night-shapes meld into broken egg yolk
coffee spills through fields.

Foggy wool tufts
grasp mushy-pea hillocks,
sweat drops from tired shoots.

If I was a mender of souls
I would prescribe
five minutes, twice a day.

It rumbles as the storm begins

Frustration strikes all with in

Raging wars on peaceful land

In the end there is no lending hand

For bonds are ripped and torn

The mender is completely worn

Sick from furious waves

Full of overwhelming craze

The sea itself has been iced over

As unrealistic hopes dreadfully lower

The calm is so far into the distant

Its meaning becomes nonexistent

Misinterpreted loved ones

Are mistaken as the burden

The obscure truth is masked in doubt

Heavily hanging in the air  

Such animosity, not a soul should ever bear

I want to happen with you
To occupy space
And time
Hand in hand
Arm in arm and
For the bed to be warm 
Because there are two

I want to wear your possession
Like a title
An honour
Hand in hand
Arm in arm and
For the days recounting
To light our procession

I want to be your heart's mender
Of the cuts
Of words
Hand in hand
Arm in arm and
To point out the sunset
And cover black with splendour 

I want to choose you again
From the crowd
Of the world 
Hand in hand
Arm in arm and
To to turn the page
And keep writing your name

You took it from my hand
Dragged it through the mud
All the while I was standing there
Vision blurred by tears

For a moment there I couldn't breathe
My small frail body hurting all over
Trust shattered
Despair
Pain
Yearning for your old self again
But you where nowhere to be found
Only a two faced liar stood there

She was there too
Playing mender
Smiling at you behind my back

You dropped it
You took out your
Put it on a silver platter
Walked right past my miserable numb body
And you gave it to her
You chose her...

I am the borrowed time giver
I wait by the edges of beds
I prop up the corners and smooth out the wrinkles
I'm also the turner of heads

I am the lone sea breaker
My whisper it shepherds your dreams
You have awoken on a
Distant shore, it seems

I am the voice of antiquity
Tethered to leaves on the wind
I am the cloth that covers you
When you have sinned

I am the borrowed time lender
Your hope, it rides on my wings
I am the broken mind mender
All I can do is offer you these things

Mine is the touch of changes
Though none of them I can claim
I sweep up the mirror pieces
That reflect your shame

I am the blind leading the blind
I have no secret gift
The truth is what you'll find
When the veil you needn't lift

We are the worm food growers
The crawlers, they rule from below
They eat up the dead and squeeze out the living
And time marches on just so

I try to be the friend,
that no one ever was to me.
Maybe one day,
I'll have someone who cares as much as me.

I try to be the heart-mender,*
that no one cares to be.
Because it all ends the same,
with the heart breaking and no where to flea.

I try to be the class-clown,
that everyone adores with exceptions.
For some reason,
I was still being called a boring deception.

I try and I try to be someone I'm not,
that's the main reason for my style.
Because nobody will ever remember,
the girl with the shy smile.

Sunshine fades away,
compared to her brightness
I wouldn't find another like her,
even if I traveled for light-years.

She makes the stars seem so insignificant,
Her beauty, so magnificent.
All that she is,
all that she will ever be,
for years to come, and years to go.

Her soul, glowing brighter then a million suns,
Yet so tender, a heart mender.
Seen so many, but she still shines the brightest,
So near, yet shes the furthest.

I must be persistent,
In order to brake her resistance.
Travel to the core of her love,
Maybe I'll find my self in it, as I did before..

I see you;
In the horses slowly trotting, riding along at the commands of their masters;
In the leaves clinging desperately to the vulnerable trees, left to the fate of the unrelenting breeze;
In the clouds drifting by, their shapes reforming at the will of the wind;
In the flowers wilting in the sun, screaming at their roots to find some source of water in this drought.

You go at the leisure of the ones who saddle your back,
and hold onto those hurt people, who angrily batter at your cowering form.
You mold yourself to others' preferences,
and are crushed by your god, looking for some hope he may have left you in this seemingly eternal despair.

I see you in my reflection, seeking some sort of break from an already fractured world.
You are broken and the world around you bent,
but there are ways to fix everything,
and I am studying to be a Mender.

Honesty could never be accepted
Sincerest apologies could never be forgiven
Strongest denial could never be heartfelt
Truths cannot be denied the right to speak
The lies were not simply displayed
For they were believed to be nervousness in the way
Hope that something would blossom
Where doubt had been the seed
Grow into beauty and loveliness
Not sorrow and bitterness
Deeply regretful of the part I played
Content with the knowledge
That it was not meant as utter deceit
Sorrowful of the pain you experienced
Regretful that I cannot separate the truth and the lies
Inside your own world of illusion
Ponder the secrets of life and fortune
Accepting that I am not the mender of lives
No more control over fate and creation
Than I ever did possess
Leaving the weaving of life’s web
To the trio, the sisters of fate

***** our fingers, we do. on the porcelain and the rampions.
we are twisted into crapes, the shape of which
are halcyon, though we refrain from them.
We are ' something else '.
the salad is the farce and the painting; yes !
the gruel and the cinders in the mock turtle soup
of our living quince and the meddling
of our every-ness.

clink our eyelids. we do. on the lamp-stand in the Hampton's
we are gifted and innate. the grey twitch
accounts for them bones we contain from sin.
We are " something felt "
the ballad is the Art and the Nothing;
yes ...
the cruel, is the mender, in our lost little group
of unseasoned  heckling and
our Winter's
truth,

and absinthe.

But there's Something Else.
and Nothing

Less....

than Atlas.

A heart that is twisted
Beyond all recognition
A torn up novel with a ruined cover

Tonight’s the night,
And in the dark
He’ll somehow fix her bleeding heart

Gilded pages,
A glued up binding,
In a soft new jacket

Pretty words and delicate pictures
Color and dark black ink
The adventure of a story

Pacify my war-torn soul
With your white-flag lips
And breath of sun.
My body needs peace
And it wants to surrender
To a gentler place
Where touches are tender.

Pacify my warring spirit
With your knock-out fists
And soldier's gun.
My body aches to ache
And pain in my sender
To a beautiful place
Where malice is mender.

We used to put obedience above our sorry selves
And live inside a creature made of love's redeeming cells
But something came upon us, likeness something like our own
that told us we could separate and sit atop a thrown
Where once I was a woman who was searching for a man
there now exist two people who are turning into sand
And should I be the glass that you created and destroyed
I've since become the ruin that you struggle to avoid
My heart can open wider, be together like it was
a mender and a giver and a product of the dust
So what it is tonight that tries to shift my weaker parts
will disappear in stillness that remains inside my heart

Krishna is
the ultimate
Source of surrender
the greatest mender

Resting on the dock with my feet dangling into the water I earlier called filthy, I swear I could hear the tiny stars trying to understand to me.
"What are you attempting to accomplish by doing this?" They all whispered in quite tones as if my answer held the world in its words.
"This isn't you, since when have you needed alcohol to do anything. You're changing and maybe not for the better."
I feel like crying but my eyes won't let the tears escape. I look over at him talking all excitedly, The moonlight holding his freckled face in her hands with a warm caress.
Him, I tell them. He is my step back, he is the root of this all. If you were to delve into my mind, he would be at the beginning saying hello.
"Would he also be at the end?" they all twinkle and ask.
We haven't found our end yet and I can't tell the future. This won't last but I have been saying that for months, it's a never ending cycle of confusion and hurt and I can't seem to get myself to get out of its rotation.
It's like the feeling you get when you ride the spinning teacups. Everything around you is blurred, less impactful. You can only see the person right in front of you and nothing else seems real. You know you'll regret it afterwards but as of now it feels oh so liberating. When you finally get off, everything comes back in full force, you feel sick and you swear you'll never do it again. The sad thing is you make yourself believe that.
"You still do it countless times after though, why is that?" The moon is listening now, her gaze is on me but her caress is on him.
Because it's fun and the feeling is amazing, it's the after part that hurts. The pain of worrying and overthinking everything, wondering why it has to be so ******* complicated when it's simple.
"You aren't talking about the ride anymore are you?" They all whisper in unison.
He shouldn't have to be drunk to tell me he loves me. This isn't love and if if is, get me the **** out, Id rather be alone.
I ****** up
"You made a mistake from which you will learn from"
I want to hate him
"Hate is the one thing your heart doesn't hold"
I need to stop seeing him
"You can't control who your mind and heart choose to like"
He is a tsunami only leaving wreckage behind that I can not clean up
"You will repair everything with time. Time is the mender here and also the breaker, it just wasn't on your side"

Astigmatism effects many around these Sylvan parts,
Where word's turn to bullets,
False love flies between transpired sparks!!!

Arrogancys lost child mourns mercantile traits,
Wherein fears art nothing but fate ,
Materialist confirmed to promise!!!!!

Whereth art thou mender?
Lover?
Dutchess!!!!!!

Mentality struck down,
Memory foam pounds lit to green bushes!!

Maunder thy jail time feeling's,
Their nights goeth short to cold!!!

Thine melodramas Soo grant I'm watching it all right here!!!

Darling, dear,
So mazed ,
Soo sincere!!!

Mistaketh nothing,
for thy monastery only can play out to thine escort lost end,
Unmonogomous prelude of gratis sphere radiance!!!

Countess of impurities,
Traitor to mall town frivolity!!!!!

******* so full of
Ridiculous lies that make you feel beautiful, when
  In actuality, he's a raging monster just like his father
   And he doesn't realize he's the one thing he hates
     Never really caring though
Enthusiastic ***** ready to
****** friends with false smiles
    Intuitively acting victimized
     Living as an actress of
      Youthful ignorance
Colorful words to make believe
Of help and encouragement
   Lining my heart with first aid only to press
    Eject when most needed
Beautiful and eccentric
Amazing mender of hearts and confidence
   In the midst of everything never giving up
    Loving wholeheartedly without fear
     Even when the recipient is undeserving
      Yet never to be for granted
Selfish and sometimes unintelligent
At making healthy decisions regarding a love life where
  Men don't respect her heart or her individually beautiful
    Mindset and opinions