The heart is a wild thing

The beating of  a heart is waves washing on a shore.

 It is a place of shadows where the Faerie live,
       a grand ballroom in an empty house,
a cry in the night when you feel the breaking of it
      like glass in a hurricane.

We think we can tame it but the
      heart is a wild thing.
It soars, it sinks, it carries all the hellos
      and goodbyes in a lifetime within it
and they make it a thing that can't be controlled.


The strength we struggle to find can become a battle---
     swords ringing out in the night,
fires lighting the faces of soldiers who know
    they may not win the fight.


The heart is a wild thing.
It beats like a drum,
  it urges some forward,
it destroys some.


 We find our love in there,
    we find our hate,
the many rooms within hold all that is good,
   all that is evil,
all that is ours and theirs and yours---
    the coldness and the warmth.


Sometimes we need to just put the heart
     up where we can't reach it for awhile.
High up in the cupboard, way up in the clouds,
    on the backs of eagle's wings. 

And when we are ready we take it down,
    dust it off and shine it up,
ready to try again----
   to make the walk off that high cliff,
to fall where we land or touch the sun.

H.rose.
   

For my mother

Growing up with my mother
was like taking  a drive through foreign lands.
She brought me to places many never find.

Her heartbeat was the first sound I ever heard.
Enclosed within her I had no idea of the adventures
she would take me on.

She was honest. She was brave.
She held me in the face of my overwhelming father.
Her tears were full of compassion that I would come
to know as h er own special blend of light and dark.

I gave myself over to her.
She was my sherpa through a minefield
I followed her steps like a patient wanderer
wondering at her mind so smart and swift.

We held hands during gathering storms.
When I wept, afraid, she comforted me
with nightly prayers.

When kids bullied  and picked on me she
told me to pray for them.
"they don't know better"
I would pray to God, hoping to
teach them compassion for one who was different.

She took me to psychic fairs where I learned
the art of pyramid meditation.
she took me out on a dark night
to find Bigfoot in the deep, dark woods.

She taught me not to lie saying
"You're like Saran Wrap. I can see right through you.
Tell me the truth and the punishment will be less.
Lie to me and it will go worse for you."

I remembered that.
She tried to help me with my fears--held me close
when I cried--tried to understand me.

Nothing takes that away.
Not the ups and downs.
Not the hard times.
I just remember her voice--her sweet, soft touch--
her joy at my successes. Her kindness with my failures.
She was my guide through a bewildering wilderness.

For my mom on September 10, 2015

The Day Folds Down to Dark

The Day folds down
A tangled sheet draping the dark
Finding a place of my own
Crickets chirp, the clock winds down.

The buses and sirens and the unimaginable
business of life
Takes. A. Deep. Breath.
and inhales a bit of the night.

The glaring sun gone down to roost
I sit on my porch and drink in the quiet
as though I have been thirsty all day
for what I didn't know...until now
when there is a bit of time to write,
to draw and sing.

The business of day is finished
I cuddle the dark like a blanket
Shot through with deep blue skies
fading to black.

Coolness, peace and the drawing down of that curtain.
Sometimes it seems there is never enough time
To be. Not do. Just be. Here. In this moment.
A blessing of stillness.
Enclosing as deeply as though it were a cave.

I hide here in my quiet dark
A candle, my cats and this pen.

There have been many moments this week to absorb.
Some powerful. Some overwhelming. Some special.
I take them all in here in the dark.
They weave the pattern--the ins and outs of my days
and it is brilliant in it's complexity like a spider's web.

The world has been too noisy of late.
Glaring drivers, blaring horns, sirens
screeching "EMERGENCY!" through the streets.

But here. In the dark. In the quiet. It's just me.
No screens to watch. I soak in the simplicity.
I bathe in it.
Secure in the stillness my mind untethers
My heart...quiets.

I draw down the deep.
Drink it in.
Peace.

The stillness and confusion

Crossing passages of conversation

Is sometimes like crossing the Sahara

All dry---there is no air to breathe.

What is love?

What is friendship?

Why do I go to such great lengths

To communicate and my words are lost

I am lost the roar of commerce and the cars driving by.

I am like a painting standing still

A still life of myself

I cannot move forward because I’m not real

The gift of life is sometimes lost on me.

I want to be this positive energy

That goes out into the world and

Makes a difference.

But how can I make a difference

When all I hear is noise inside my head?

How can I be with someone?

I don’t even know myself well enough.

There is a saying that a picture says

A thousand words.

At this point I need a picture

Because words are lost within me

I miss those that are lost; those that are gone

I try to pinpoint my moods and they are too flighty.

A great chasm appears sometimes between myself and others.

I want to hide, to bury myself under the covers until the coast is clear

There is nothing that can be done when I am in this state.

Not friends or family can pull me from this rabbit hole.

I am deep within it----picking up pennies for luck

Hoping against hope they work.

The mind is a maze

Being social is impossible

I am sad; frozen in deep down feelings

Of inadequacy and time that has passed.

I feel I have contributed nothing

My mind is blank with recollections

Of times I actually became who I really wanted to be.

The desert lies before me

The darkness lies within me

I am an empty vessel waiting to be filled.

I thought once I could fill it

But now I am not so sure.                                           Heather Rose