"Le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît pas."— Blaise Pascal
She wears her pain like a purple heart--
An inner pain that tears her apart--
Hugs it close like a familiar friend,
Knows full well it'll kill her in the end.
A crying waif desiring some aid
Searching for something she has mislaid.
Fleeting childhood runs faster than time
Away with neither reason nor rhyme.
But those days are gone with a soft sigh,
Memories still remain, days gone by.
Just as a fallen damsel lacks cover--
Similar, a forsaken lover.
The joy she wore so proud and so free
Has departed now; she needs an abri.
And the purple stain won't e'er depart,
It's an inner pain--call it a heart.
And if I were to write
A song of joy to sing
With what words
Should emotions bring
To life the song that is mine?
And if I were to paint
A picture of love to share
With what colors
Should I then choose
To show the part that is divine?
And if I were to play
An instrument attuned
With what notes
Should praises aspire
To touch the secular mind?
Je suis écrivaine
et dans ce domaine
J'agis comme une folle
Ce n'est pas très drole
D'être écrivaine
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Brother bear my burdens |
Sister see my sorrow And know that I am naught Here today, gone the morrow But in your life am caught. Sister know my weakness Makes me broke inside Covers me with shadows In which I will not hide. Sister I am willing If you are willing too For life, though 'tis chilling, Shall not defeat us two. Sister I feel your strain These burdens are my own Together, heal the pain And soon we'll reach our home. |
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Cover me with your robe of wool,
Keep me from the pasture's wet chill,
From the eyes of men lustful,
From the hearts of men who kill.
Innocence is broken but once
And faith is ever destroyed
By those who know not the substance
Of an inner life misdeployed.
I have not a shelter nor home
In which to keep my heart's ease
In which to weave my simple poem
Take me in, won't you, will you, please?
Shelter me within your smile
And let me know that I am safe
No longer alone, in exile
No more weary, wandering waif.
This is my grail to you
A paper cup at a blood bank
Blood held up in offering,
Offering new life.
This is my grail to you
An indent in the ground that
captures and traps the falling drops
as the throat is slit for the sacrifice
offering up blood for our sins.
This is my grail to you
A body holding its life
in veins and sinews
and vessels that stretch for miles
going nowhere special,
Just round and round and round.
This is my grail to you
A liquid, life flowing in spirit and soul,
yet trapped in flesh bones and skin
forced to be earth-bound until death's freedom
releases the sacred blood.
This is my grail to you
A love that knows no reason or logic.
why I love you is a mystery that keeps
me searching for a cause, a first origin
a connection that links and binds.
This is my grail to you
Cutting loose the ties that bind so that
you can be free to seek your own destiny.
No longer tied by my love, but freed by
my choice. Will you return to me? Perhaps?
This is my grail to you
Secret acts of servitude and honor
Holding you upward in my hands for you are
precious blood to me. You are the one
I silently watch and wait for.
I'm in the desert, the valley of death
The wasteland of bones and skulls
There is no escape from this longing
To see green and hear water and be refreshed.
I want what I want, why did you make me so?
I can't escape the need to be significant.
I can't shake the sense of eternity
That pursues me like an angel of wrath.
What is it that you want? Do justice
Love mercy, walk humbly, but what about
the rest? What about the being created
for a purpose, what about significance?
How do I love thee? As with a burning need
to prove that it is sincere and true,
As with a fire that consumes me and singes
the hairs on my head and face, leaving me naked and wide-eyed.
I am naked of even the pretense of mattering at all:
Stripped of the sense of humanity that adds dignity
Stripped of the emotions that bring contentment
Stripped of the abilities and talents that speak to others.
I don't want to live like this. I am depressed,
Oppressed, struggling with mundane reality.
I want to be, not do. But in being, I express by doing
And now my doing is over. I sit like Job with nothing left to say.
There is a deeper sorrow that knows no tears
A mantle on the shoulders weighted with years
A public display of grief and pain ends at last,
and passing, would be a sacrilege, profane the past.
Mourning is a public affair full of sighs
and sorrows worn for display, for grieving eyes.
But the silent one who stands alone and still
And does not join in the orgy of emotions
Is more than a statue in control of the will.
If Atlas falters, the world cracks apart
Along the fault lines, inner scars at the heart
Of reality which define the core and are sheathed
By a calm of normality, yet are nonetheless grieved.
See inside my soul and know
beauty formed from pressure,
sorrows, scars, and woe
writ deep in full measure.
Can you see the beauty glow,
treasure in the making–
blood, skin, bones, and marrow
vessels for His breaking.
Can I see inside your soul?
How will I inform my sight
with knowledge of your whole
experience, day and night?
We are but spit and clay–
Spirit breathed and fey.