If

The world is dry
Heat fills the landscape
Nothing remains on the ground not parched
Dried and desiccated
Hear it crunch underfoot
As you slowly wander

The ground baked red
Rusty in colour and feel
Cracks cover the surface
No hint of moisture here
Nothing left
But dust

Look up and see
Perfect blueness of sky
Unmarred by clouds
Offering hope
Infinite expanse to spread
If only
If

An Empty Room

An empty room
Carpet faded, worn
Walls off-white and streaked with grime
Patches showing repairs completed long ago

An empty room
Smell of mould and dust
Filling the nose and choking
Cut by a faint hint of bleach

An empty room
Quiet and still, no air moves
Any sound echoes harshly
Then is lost

An empty room
Filled with ghosts
Memories of times past
Joy and sadness fading to grey

An empty room
Nothing remains now
All has been taken

Oak

On the porch the chair rocks alone
Thin layer of dust on well worn seat
A storm rides the nighttime air
Bringing a chill and hint of rain
Nothing stirs

On the porch an old man rocks
Hands turned pale and stiff with age
He shares stories of his youth
When the world was different
Better
The children listen and learn
Not knowing what it is they are learning
Content to hear the old man as he rocks

A gift well recieved
As age tires her joints
The chair provides comfort
Watch the children play
While parents work in the fields
She smiles and is young once more
Forever to him

He works long into the night
Hands firm and steady
Splotched and scarred with experience
Shaves of oak spread
And create mountains for ants to scale
Striving as they will
As he does
Until his task is complete

The storm is fierce
Shared warmth broken by shouts of thunder
A bright light shines for a moment
Then soft yellow glow
Quickly hidden by rain
The morning sun reveals the great oak
Now shattered and rent in two
Part burnt
Part living
A once mighty tree taken by nature
And falling as all things must fall

He climbs
Watched from the porch
As he scrambles up the oak
Trying to reach the top
See what the birds must see
Today he fails
Fear overcoming his mind
Flesh weakened he comes down
Knowing that one day
He will see as the birds
One day

Time has passed
The sapling grows healthy and strong
The boy learns to walk
Talk
Countless questions diverted
Each time bringing memories
Each time harder to put aside
Soon answers must be given
But not yet

The baby cries
In this very moment inconsolable
Yet this moment shall pass
Innocence the gift of the young
Forgiveness a gift never accepted
As the father stares at the small growth
Growth to commemorate loss
He holds the baby closely
The cry a rememberance to all that is lost
A promise to the future

They hold hands
Lost in each other's eyes
His hand moving over the swell of her
His nose enjoying the smell of her
They relax and laugh
Under the gentle shade of the oak
Soon to be left behind
But never forgotten
A reminder of the past
At the beginning of their future

Posts from the Vault - Scars, Regrets, Forgiveness, Acceptance

An old friend, Mahray, dropped in to visit. He told me a story of sorts, then had a drink and left again. Bit off a weird one, to be honest.

Scars
Scars. We all bear them. Each carries a story, whether of emotional or physical injuries. Some scars fade over time, others are with us for life. Some scars flare up now and again, others are painful for the rest of our lives. Scars.

I have many scars. Some of them are worthy of stories. Others are not. This is the story of some of my scars, where they came from. Why the still pain me.

Take this one. Faded. Slightly raised. Runs along the back of my thumb, right on top of the joint. It flexes with movement. It is one of many scars on my hands. These come from a life of work. Not being incautious, those are other scars. No, these come from the day to day tasks, minor slips, cuts. Look at anyone's hands, look at your own. You will find they tell the story of a life, in small blemishes, scars, marks. Look carefully at your own. Think back to how you gained each mark. They all tell a part of the greater story.

A word of advice. Look carefully at the hands of those you would deal with. If you can see their story, even if you cannot read it, then deal with them. If you cannot, walk away. For one who's hands do not tell their story are hiding from you.

Another small scar, sharper. A simple accident. A reminder of the risks of careless action. Not that I don't take action now, but there are times when I think first. Sometimes.

Moving further along, down my arm. A set of scars along my wrist. Messy. Harsh. Fading now, but still visible, after decades worth of slow healing. A reminder of the past. A story to tell.

Not the most interesting story, I will admit. A simple childhood game. A challenge, a misjudgement, a door closing. A door closing hard, with glass. I'm sure you can fill in the rest, as an intelligent being. Let us say it was my first truly impressive scar, but is not and will not be my last.

Moving further, again. My shoulder. A letter, faintly outlined in white tissue against the darker skin. A small physical scar masking a much deeper, vicious emotional wound. A wound that to this day bleeds a little more each hour, a constant reminder of a presence now gone. The wound, inflicted by another. The scar entirely my own.

Let us continue on our journey. Across my side, running into my back. A long, ragged mark. The legacy of another mistake, this one proved nearly fatal. A simple mistake, common in nature. Assuming that once an enemy was on the ground they were not worthy of attention. Do not make the same mistake I did. An enemy is your enemy until they are dead. Even then, you should treat them with the respect and caution that they deserve. Even the meanest enemy can prove fatal if not treated with respect, and sometimes more than scars remain. Or less.

Across my leg. Perfectly parallel to the ground. Dark and slightly puckered. You would be forgiven for thinking that this scar was inflicted by a blade, deliberate. You would be wrong. Again, an accident. A careless movement. A lasting legacy, a reminder that care must always be taken even in familiar surroundings.

Every time I consider this scar, I am reminded of those familiar surroundings. Each time it brings fresh memories, fresh recollection, fresh pain. Another scar that refuses to heal. Perhaps I refuse to let it heal, for healing would mean forgetting. I will not forget. So the scar remains.

There are more. Many more. Each scar tells it's own story, forms a part of the tapestry of my skin. To tell all the stories would be to tell the story of my life. Reliving each part, looking back on those decisions again. Would I change them? No. Each scar forms a part of me now, a part of who I am and who I have become. They are my life, and I would not change my life.

I think Mahray had got into my drinks cupboard fairly early. There were some little shards of glass around the place, I've done my best to clean it up but probably best if we keep the lil ones away from the dungeon for a while

Regrets

Hi. Sorry about the mess, I had a bit of a spill when I was pouring myself a drink. Cleaned it up for the most part, just watch out for those little bits of broken glass. You know the bits I mean, the only way you can find those is bare feet. Tentacles, I guess, in your case. Never mind. Bit of pain never hurt anyone, did it.

Sorry to let myself in without asking, but you were off and about. Went for a walk last night, couple of trips around the place. Nice gardens you've got, very relaxing. Could do with a labyrinth though, in my opinion. Walking around the gardens and the grounds is all very good, but a true labyrinth would make quiet meditation and thought that much easier.

Thought a lot last night. After our little chat, that is. Well, I chatted. You just listened, and thank you for that, I appreciate it. Sometimes I need to talk, every couple of years. Hard to find people to listen, who don't get scared. I mean look at me, not the most upstanding-looking gentleman ever.

Last we spoke, I was showing you my scars. Some of them, anyway. I have more, as everyone does. Plenty on the inside as well. One day I'll breathe my last breath, and I'll be finished on this world. At that time, perhaps a higher being will take a look at my soul. I wonder what they'll see. There are some scars there as well, big ones.

I don't want to talk about that tonight though, you've heard enough for the time being of my life. What I want to talk about is how I deal with it. Knowing what I do of you, you must have some scars of your own. Mistakes, big ones. That's the real definition of power, I've heard it said. Power means when you make a mistake, as you are bound to do, it's a big one. Affects lots of people. The more power you have, the bigger your mistakes.

I've made plenty in my time. Had plenty of chances to regret what I've done. I spent years dwelling on my mistakes. Each scar, bringing memories, could just as easily bring regrets. They don't though. I came to a... epiphany, a while ago now. The past is passed. It seems trite, but consider that statement in some depth. What is in the past has happened, yes. We can't change it. Well, I can't, don't know about you. Given the choice though, I still wouldn't change anything. Even the bad bits.

We are made up of choices. It's the same as power and making mistakes. Power is also about making choices. Those choices, good or bad, define us. The greater the power we possess, the greater the mistakes we can make, but the more and bigger the choices. I am the sum of my choices, all of them. Changing what has happened would change who I am now. Even going back to make 'better' choices, would mean that I would not be me, I would be someone else. That someone else may be a better person, or a wiser person, or a happier person. But they would not be me.

So I choose to make my decisions, knowing that when I look back with the ever-clear hindsight I may feel they should have been different. I choose to accept this, and not regret. Regret is a useless emotion, it only causes pain and distress. Have I made mistakes? Yes, many, and some of them have caused terrible harm. Do I regret them? No. I choose to accept that the past has passed and cannot be changed. I choose to look to the present and the future, and not dwell on the past.

So I do not regret breaking that glass. I am sorry. I do hope that you don't have an injury. I will also not regret being drunk. I may make bad decisions. But they will simply form another part of the tapestry of my life.

Forgiveness

Silence is also beckoning to me, but I'm kinda floating around in a vast sea at the moment. Perhaps this is a recollection of past discussions, where my mind has drifted while my body drifts. Or maybe not. Don't ask me, I'm just writing down what Mahray tells me!

He came to me again this night, Mahray. He looks tired. Even more tired than usual. If it wasn't for the 'bots I would suspect he is nearing an end. His soul feels... thin, worn, hard used. I am concerned for him, for I do not know if I can do as he has asked.

Yes, I'm back again. Sorry, thought you'd got rid of me, didn't you. Well, not quite. I've still got a need to talk, if you're willing to listen. Even if you're not willing, I'm going to talk anyway, sorry. Drink some of your whiskey as well. I appreciate your taste, surprises me a little. Shouldn't, I guess. Just goes to show, no matter how well you think you know... someone, something, there are always surprises.

I've been thinking again, walking. Walking and thinking. The walking seems to help a lot. Lets me put my thoughts in order. Problem is, then I'm left alone with my thoughts. It seems to me that spending time with myself, with my own thoughts, just leads to problems. Big problems for me. A lot of my thoughts are not always pleasant.

I did say I have no regrets, and that is true. That doesn't mean my mind doesn't dwell on matters. Mistakes I've made. Thoughts coming to haunt me over and over again. Reliving actions taken, others not taken. We all suffer from this affliction, regardless of choosing not to regret our actions.

Which brings me to you. For some reason, you seem to have... something. A quality rarely seen. I can tell you my problems, as I have been. I can ask you for forgiveness. I don't know if you can grant it or not, but... I cannot forgive myself.

It's strange, truly. You would think that forgiveness would be easy, with a philosophy of no regrets. It doesn't seem to be so. I wonder why? What advice would I offer someone else in my situation? It is a difficult question, not everyone has access to a being of power that might grant forgiveness.

Will you? Will you be the one to forgive me? It is not something I ask lightly. I know I cannot forgive myself. If you cannot forgive me, then I will bear my burden, not gladly, but at least knowing that it is my burden to bear. If you do forgive me, then somehow you have transcended my own pain and brought it into yourself.

So that brings me back to my question. What would I say to someone who did not have access. Who could not ask for forgiveness and expect an answer, whatever that answer may be. Who had to accept the pain and torment of dealing with their mistakes, or forgiving themselves. Why is it that I cannot forgive myself, yet will accept your decision?

I must put aside my own fear, misgivings. My own history, a chequered past littered with mistakes and scars. Speak as though I hold the wisdom, I am the one with the great knowledge.

What I would say is this.

Forgiveness is not forgetting. It is easy to mistake the two, but to forget is not to forgive, nor is to forgive to forget. Forgiveness instead is accepting that which has happened, and resolving to understand it. To understand that people's actions were not malicious. To understand that mistakes were made. To understand that while these actions, these mistakes may have affected many, they were not intended to do harm. That is the key to forgiveness.

As to why you, I, do not feel we can forgive ourselves. It is complex, but at the heart it is simple. To forgive ourselves is to accept that what happened was not special. We lose the pain, the scar on our soul, that badge of honour that says we did something. We changed the world. It may have been a bad change, but a change it was. To forgive ourselves means to change what happened into mere chance, mere misfortune. If it is no longer special, then how can we justify ourselves, our actions, our scars.

So I turn to you. Somehow, by asking another for forgiveness it becomes easier. For you to forgive, you must first understand. By understanding, you then make my pain special. You fill my need for recognition, however twisted or not that need may have become.

I ask you for forgiveness. You may choose to grant it or not, I will bear my burden either way.

Acceptance

Transcribed from internal logs. Mahray recorded as entering the dungeon, but no record exists of exit.

How do you forgive a god? Or if not a god, then a being with god-like power, maybe god-like knowledge. So call him a god then. (Yes, I speak of a him, for that is how I know him. If he is truly male I do not know, I can only speak to what I see.) How do you forgive a god then? Is it the same as forgiving anyone else?

In a sense, yes it is. In another way, it is far from forgiving anyone else, a task that would appear at first glance to be impossible. For to truly forgive, we have to understand. To understand, to comprehend his actions, that is the task that concerns me.

It would be simple to simply abandon the task. Avoid thought of forgiveness, move on and try to forget. But while I have the choice to abandon the challenge, leave him to his own devices, I cannot. Not because I fear for myself. But I fear for others. I fear for this world.

Consider, if you would. A being of vast power, vast knowledge, vast ability. A being that has created and destroyed wonders. The vast power of being able to influence events, lives. Change the course of many.

Now think about the decisions that he would have made. Not all of them would have been the 'right' decision. Many mistakes would have been made, for even the wisest amongst us cannot see all ends. And in this place, this time? Mistakes will have been made. Regrets building. One such as he will require forgiveness, and I do not see that he can forgive himself.

If he cannot forgive himself, then what would happen? Over vast time, the regrets would build. The mistakes would pile on mistakes, making every decision an agonising choice. Would not anyone, in that situation, begin to wonder. Begin to doubt. Begin to choose not to choose, not to decide. Or perhaps, to make the final decision, to end it all. Cease the pain and suffering of all.

I cannot guarantee that decision would be made. But the risk... the risk is too much to bear. Why me? I can see the question forming on your lips, allow me to answer it thusly. Who else if not me? Is there someone better suited to the task? Better qualified? More experienced? Almost certainly. But they are not here, now. It is here and now that concerns me. I know I am not to late, for I still exist, I still think, I still talk. Yet I fear that soon this will not be the case, if he cannot be forgiven. For it is past the time where he could easily forgive himself.

It comes down to understanding. Without understanding there can be no forgiveness. I do not speak of full understanding, for who can ever fully understand another? Yet even a partial understanding will allow for forgiveness. How to gain that understanding is key. It must be apparent that to simply approach him and ask would be futile. After all, even the best amongst us tend to refuse offered help, for any number of reasons. Pride. Suspicion.

How to approach him then. How to build the rapport needed for understanding. How then to begin to learn enough to grant at least part of the forgiveness required. It is no easy task. It will take time, when time is of the very essence. So a subtle approach is best. Build a rapport as quickly as possible. Share thoughts, feelings, but always the truth. Trust in the truth, for this is too an important task to rely on lies. Lies can be useful, but they require a framework and careful planning. In this case there is not the time.

Do you see the magnitude of the task? The careful balance between not enough time and too much time. I feel that I have reached that balance now. I have gained enough of an understanding, to be able to begin the process of forgiveness. Of accepting your mistakes, taking them into myself, understanding, and forgiving.

Will you accept forgiveness?

The Sun Sets

The sun sets
Slowly sinking beyond the horizon
A soft glow fills the air
Shades of reds and yellows
Shadows lengthening
Twisting in the glow
Taking shapes of monsters fantastic

The sun sets
Waves crash softly on the beach
The sand still warm from day's heat
A stiff wind blows
Chasing birds over land
Squawking, they make themselves known
Crowding the trees
Filling the sky with noise and colour

The sun sets
Couples walk hand in hand
Climbing the mountain
Looking out over green land
Yet only seeing each other
The red glow not from the sun
They sit and share silence
Communicating without words

The sun sets
A lone dog stares at the sky
Lifts his muzzle and sounds
Clear howl across the sky
A call taken up by others
Again and again
They greet the coming night

The sun sets

The Sun

Will you stare into the sun?
Take the risk and see
For I tell you now
I feel the sun staring at me

Will you dive into the depths
Of that great flaming ball?
Be prepared to burn up
Will you risk it all?

For if the sun is staring at me
And if there truly is more to see
Then dive into its depths, just you and me
And holding hands, if we believe

We shall not burn, we shall not scorch
As welcomed we fly deep
Into the heart of fire and light
Come with me, take the leap

The Curse of the Education Acronym

NAPLAN (National Assessment Program – Literacy and Numeracy). ACARA (Australian Curriculum, Assessment and Reporting Authority). SCSEEC (Standing Council on School Education and Early Childhood). Acronyms that are sure to cause confusion for most, yet are commonly used by professionals in the education sector. Along with an entirely separate language of jargon, these terms are used without mercy to obfuscate and create a sense of mystique, as well as for the simple reason of using mental prototypes.

It's not hard to find examples of educational jargon and acronyms, they are used constantly in the public. What can be surprising is the way in which educators will talk to each other. To give an example, it is not uncommon for a teacher to say “His arousal level was really high when he walked in, so I used selective attending when he was being disruptive”. A plain English translation? “He walked in in a really grumpy mood, so I let him sit there and play on his phone.” Reading through educational research is even worse, with an acronym soup making a mess of things.

There has to be a reason for this particular language though. And there is. It comes down to mental prototypes and shortcuts. To explain briefly, a mental prototype is how we link words to ideas. If I say the word table, everyone has a picture of a table in their head. If you say to a teacher 'arousal', then that links to a particular explanation in their head (around the levels of stress hormones in a student, what might have caused that, and how best to deal with a student with a high level of arousal).

Acronyms and jargon also allow educators to share ideas without having to go into a great deal of detail. Once they start talking about pedagogy and curriculum, the jargon is a way of keeping track of complex concepts and ideas. This can lead to problems though. There's an old adage – familiarity breeds contempt. When you start to talk about things with an acronym, it becomes very easy to just think of them as that string of letters. This means that it is harder to have a deep understanding of the term and concept. The mental shortcut becomes the term, and a lot of that meaning is lost.

Secondly, mental prototypes are individual. The table that you thought of earlier isn't the same as my table, or anyone else's really. Sure, they'll have similar features (some number of legs, probably four, and a top surface). But there are some serious differences. Is the table made from wood, or metal, or maybe glass? Is it square, rectangular, round?

This is the problem with using jargon and acronyms, their use presupposes that everyone really is talking about the same thing. Of course, the number of acronyms that are used is increasing on a daily basis (a school might use ASOT (Art and Science Of Teaching) as their pedagogical basis and SWPBS (School Wide Positive Behaviour Support) for their behaviour management). By itself, this isn't a problem. But not everyone is aware of the latest trend, or system, or national body, and not everyone is willing to admit they don't know. It is common to see a term being used in a staff meeting followed by whispered conversations throughout the room as people try to work out what was just said.

The problem isn't only with educators. If they have difficulties keeping up with all the acronyms, what about the parents and students? Some terms have become very familiar, like NAPLAN, but if you ask the students who sit the test – can they tell you what it means? Basically, they would say it's a big scary test. Ask a parent about ACARA, or even worse SCSEEC and they'll probably give you a blank look. Education is all about working with everyone involved, which includes parents and most importantly students. When these terms are used without explanation it makes it even harder to communicate.

This lack of communication is what will destroy relationships between parents, students, and educators. Without those relationships, education simply cannot happen. Relationships and shared understandings make for good learning. Excessive use of jargon makes these relationships harder to create and maintain.

All the acronyms, all the jargon, it serves a purpose. It can create a commonality amongst educators, a shared specific language that lets them pass around and manipulate complex ideas with ease. It can also lead to taking shortcuts and not really exploring the issue underneath that term. When it comes to communicating with other people involved in education, mainly the students themselves, then these terms can simply mean the student will disengage.

After all, good pedagogy is about developing meaningful and deep understandings via relational transactions between all stakeholders.

Good teaching is about working with the kids to make sure they understand what you're on about.

Empty

I reach down
Open my chest
Place my hand inside
Empty

I reach up
Unzip my head
Place my hand inside
Ashes

I reach down again
Slide open my stomach
Butterflies wing out
Shimmering

I reach up once more
Grasp at my mouth
Peel it away
Silent

I lie down
Close my eyes
They disappear
I remain still
Empty

Kraken

The wave breaks
Soft white foam on crest
As it seeks to devour the sand
Only to pull back
To try again
And again

In the water small fish dart
This way and that
Chasing food
Being chased
Oblivious to the world around them

The sky remains clear
A seagull lets out a lonely cry
Seeking companionship
Hearing no reply he tilts
Moves on

Deep beneath the surface
In uncharted waters
A great shape lies
Silent
Waiting

Free

A gentle wind blows
The stream gurgles and giggles
Seeing humour only it sees
The bay horse lowers her head
Drinking water pure and clean
Dappled shadows on soft fur
From the trees above

Satisfied, she moves back
Then runs
Runs for the sake of running
Black mane flowing
In the wind of her passage
She runs for the sake of freedom
For she has no cares
In this moment
She is free

Roots gently suck at water
Freely given
The stream giggles softly
With joy
Free.

Chains

We are all bound by chains
  Chains of love
  Chains of duty
  Chains of fear
When we say I can't
  Chains draw around our neck
  Tightening
  Strangling
  Each repetition pulling tighter
When we say I love
  We cast chains out
  Linked to us
  Hoping to be chained in return
  Sometimes left alone
  Yet still chained
Chains can be broken
  Find the weak link
  Apply a great force
  And watch fragments fly
  Hot shards of metal cut through
  Bleed for your broken chains
For no matter the chain
  Breaking it always hurts
    Always.

A still pond

A still pond
Water like glass
Smooth, unbroken
Gentle glow of moon reflected
Shining above all

The dragonfly glides
Slowly coming to rest on the water
Silver ripples spread
Curling around rocks and reeds
Breaking the stillness

A splash
Ripples race and intersect
Calm returns to the pool
The moon watches on

She of the Fire-touched Hair

Sometimes my muse likes me. When she does (which is linked in a rather suspicious way to when I have work to get done...) music flows nicely.

Fire-Touched Hair (A folk song)

I saw my true love today
She of the fire-touched hair
She walked past with spring in step
Didn't see me there
I almost called out to her then
Almost did I dare
When I saw my true love
She of the fire-touched hair

Her skin so soft and her fiery hair
A smile to melt the hardest heart
Her soft and lilting voice
Sweeter than any harp

I saw my true love today
She of the fire-touched hair
I spoke to her of how I felt
Laid my feelings bare
She just kept walking, moving on
As if I wasn't there
Then it came to me so clear
I knew then how she cared

Her skin so soft and her fiery hair
A smile to melt the hardest heart
Her soft and lilting voice
Sweeter than any harp

I saw my true love today
She of the fire-touched hair
She wept and wailed as she knelt
Her face still so fair
Kneeling down beside my grave
I know she felt me there
Oh how I love here even now
She of the fire-touched hair

My Old Friend

Once again we meet, my old friend
Once again I welcome you, accept you
Bring you inside and make you feel
A part of my life, a part that is true

Your visit not unexpected, not at all
Although the timing as always unclear
No matter how long or short the visit
You are always welcome to stay here

Quiet you are, unassuming
But with such sharp wit
Sneaky, sometimes, as you move
And make us look like twits

Too polite to ask, I see in your heart
The question, are you a drain
On resources, time and effort
The answer is no, my friend, my pain

Ice

The frost creeps closer
Leaving gentle lattice of ice on stone
A sign the doom is approaching
Nearing

Breath creates mist
Run as you like you are slow
And the chill saps strength
Until you have n o choice
But to turn
And face

Stillness
No sound
No movement
Utter calm
Then a breath
Crystals forming in air
Glistening white
Falling slowly

Dark shapes sweep back
The black of cold night
Without moon or stars
The black of deepest ocean
Far from any light
The black of the endless void
Devouring all

A foot strikes the ground hard
Cracking the frost
At the same time reforming
Shards of ice cut like daggers
Flying through the air
Beware
They seek warmth of blood
Another step
And another
As the beast moves forward

A great roar sounds
Stone trembles
In the echo silence greater
Stillness returns for a moment
In the cold, cold air

The enemy revealed
Wings of nothingness
Hooves of ice
Breath freezing the very air
A being of cold
A being of ice
A Balrog of ancient times

Flee if you can
But beware
Flight will only lead to death
Fight and risk losing all
There is no good choice
Only which way
You choose

My Sad

I found a sad one lonely day
Just curled up on my bed
He looked so small and lonely
I scritched him on the head

The sad looked at me with big brown eyes
I picked hum up to hold
Pulled him closely to my chest
He felt scared and cold

My sad has long dark fur
With patchy spots of grey
When I stroke my sad I cry
But why I cannot say

My sad sometimes sleeps with me
When I go to bed at night
Sometimes I think he sneaks beside me
Just to give a fright

When my sad isn't with me
I feel a bit more light
But then he comes and hugs me
And somehow that seems right

My sad is getting older now
His coat has turned more grey
We still spend time together though
Nearly every day

We don't have to talk
It's enough he's there
I talk to my sad and stroke him
He shows me that he cares

One day I'll have to let my sad go
When we both are ready
But not for a long time yet
Even thinking it makes me unsteady

I found a sad one lonely day
He's been with me ever since then
I feel less lonely when he's around
My sad, my pal, my friend

The Wind

A soft wind moans in the trees
Telling stories that nobody hears
Sharing wisdom that nobody heeds
Crying tears that nobody sees

The leaves rustle and shift
Unnoticed in the night
Each alone and afraid
Yet unwilling to share their fear

A moth shifts, sensing disturbance
The bat eats, quickly
Many more must die tonight
So that he might live

The tick jumps
Finding warm flesh
Embedding jaws deep
Slowly swelling with blood

The wind blows still
Passing over all
Questing for someone
That it can never find

Drip

Drip
In the dark
A small room
Drip
Hollowed out
From living rock
Drip
Hidden from the surface
Buried deep
Drip
A place to live
A place to hide
Drip
Away from the light
The noise
Drip
The terrible nature
Of the world
Drip
When there is need
To hide
Drip
To leave it
Behind and above
Drip
The room is there
In the dark
Drip
Safe and secure
Isolated
Drip
A refuge
When needed
Drip
Where nothing can enter
No one can enter
Drip
Until ready
To leave
Drip
To face another day
The noise, the light
Drip
Knowing that there is a room
Hidden
Drip
Buried
Safe

The Storm

The storm comes
Announcing with far distant rumble
Trees shaking in short gusts
Ears prick as shelter is sought
Horizon lightens and goes dark

The storm breaks
Rain falls hard
Driven by wind
Thunder cracks and roars
The deer stands silhouetted
Caught fleeing by brief flash of light
Then darkness takes the land again

The storm passes
Broken branches stand mute testimony
Continued rain gentle now
Warm
Life continues

She sings

She sings
With broken voice
A song of longing
A song of love
A broken song that haunts
Hurts
Helps bring the pain forward
To be seen
To be embraced
To be accepted

She sings
The broken song
Missing the harmony
Incomplete
Unfinished
Her heart torn free with each note
Free to hurt
Free to beat
Free to heal

She sings
A song of pain
A song of loss
A song of forgiveness

Butterflies in my Stomach

Butterflies
In my stomach
Each time I see her
Walking by

Butterflies
With poison wings
Slicing me to pieces
Leaving me ont he ground
Moaning in pain
Watching her leave
Wishing she would stay

Butterflies
Each and every time
Wings cutting and
Toxins burning
Waiting for that moment
To be noticed
But she never sees
She just walks by
And the butterflies win

With Broken Wing

She flies
High above the ground
And sings
With broken song
Fractured melody returning
Again and again
To an open sound
Of pain

He sings
Beautiful to hear
Yet lost in the noise
Flapping, trying to fly
With broken wing

The Bird

The bird flies alone
The sky is her world
She sees as far as horizons stretch
The faint hint of light a herald
Showing the path to be flown

The sun's rays kiss the land
A mist roils and rolls
Glowing trees appear first
Exerting a gentle control
Ensuring all goes as planned

Slowly the mist sinks into the ground
Letting the sun's warmth flow
Nature stirs as animals wake
Some to their beds go
Others shift with every sound

She flies above all
Watching the world turn
Leaving it be for now
Taking the chance to learn
Letting herself be entthrall'd