Home

the only way Home

Posted by

0

OceanGreen

I am neck-deep in this wave-water of You.
That, all my life before
I only could stick my toe in –
or, sometimes
there was loud-splash and timid-step, You
surging up around my ankles –
or, other times
in the bravest neurotic mad-laced hours,
I would close my eyes and run barreling
into deep-dark-swirling waters up to my waist.
But — Always,
as the sand ripped away beneath my feet,
the dizziness spun and fear gripped me,
out and back to the safety of shore I ran.

Now,
no solid ground-safety-land beneath my feet.
Your waves flow-wash-lap at my throat –
Your water forces–kisses-enters my mouth –
I rock-surrender-float, two toes touching bottom,
in this bliss of dissolving into You —
My soul begs You — fill me, immerse me, consume me.
My Mind cannot understand this madness.
My Heart knows insanity in love with the Beloved
is the only way Home.

 

~Photo Credit: (c)2019 Marissa Mullins

Your Hands

Posted by

3

Harvey and Irene Gosnell
(My Maternal Grandparents)

After all these years,
a quarter-century past,
there is a printed-off copy
an old black-and-white photo
holding your images,
sitting framed on my desk.
I pick it up —
So genuinely the two of you
in looks, posture, characteristics
that I am
brought to heated tears —
as I hold you in my hands

Three generations
of daughters grown to life
in the house with a garden,
tea-cup roses, gladiolas, daffodils,
and tiger-lilies painting
the vast-long days lived
held in your hands.

I’m the last
almost-daughter
of your ancient, dark days —
(One born of blood-love,
One born of mercy-love,
One born of sorrow-love.)
Fifty years of little girls
becoming women
becoming lost — slipping
from your hands — but you

planted the seeds becoming traits
that would manifest and bloom
over time
like the much-loved roses
down the side of the yard.
We were all cultivated
in the same love,
the same soil.

I hold you in my hands
suddenly notice
that your hands look worn
old and tired
from all the years spent
planting and harvesting.

~May 2012

Related articles

That One Peach

Posted by

1

 
 

There is
that
one peach
over-ripe
battered and bruised
on one side
that I must have —
craving modest
imperfection
as the bite sinks deep
and the juice
rolls gently
down my chin.
The
imperfect things
often hold
the greatest pleasure,
a lingering sweetness
that outlasts time.
I am
a devourer
of imperfection —
leaving
all the perfect things
for someone else.

~July 2011

 

 

 Art Prints

Find out more about the artist at this website.

Grandfather

Posted by

2

On some other lost plane
of time you are standing
watching the years roll
like clouds forecasting
rain on a spring day.

Gray-black eyes fold tears
into memory that forgets
you. As soon as dawn comes
you watch the children
grow like strong trees,
the grandchildren grow
like deep-rooted sycamores
in the ground you plowed.

On some other lost plane
of time you are hovering
as a bright-bold presence
with a smile eating tears
of snow on a winter day.

April 2011

Related Articles

This is How We Dance

Posted by

6

 

In circles that flow
during dream-time,
a step to the side.
A whisper to the left.
Two-step toward possibility.
Your voice in my ear
hushed tones of my name
spoken a thousand miles away.
There you are – living normally
where you are – I live normally
too, except for that vast space
of empty, during dream-time.
A whisper to the left,
A step to the side, two-step
in circles that flow. This
is how we dance.

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

 

Related Articles