Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

ER

child
why do
you continue
to choose
to be
confined
by these
white
cold
walls?
don’t
you
know
that
the
real
prison
is in
your
mind?
and
that
your
healing
lies
through
the
narrow
scraping
door
of the
painful
past?
yet
you
must
choose
to take
the offered
hand
rise
from your
sterile
bed
and
step out
into
the
light
of a
different
day

Posted in Prayers and the Sacred

Bottles of Tears

perhaps it seems that
they are wasted
this sad rain
that has fallen
from the gray clouds
of your eyes

but know this
child of heaven
each precious drop
has been captured
held close to the heart
of the One who has
cried with you

and on that day
when every tear
is wiped away
and joy is a
forever thing
these vessels
will be emptied
into that glorious
golden stream
that is for the
healing of the
nations

Posted in Prayers and the Sacred

Joy Comes In The Mourning …

one day
when you least
expect it
you will awaken
to find
the weight
that had lain
across your
shoulders
like a
hammer

is suddenly
gone
lifted by
an unseen
hand
and tossed
away
like a
suit of
armor
you no
longer
have
to
wear

and the
fear
that
hovered
around
your
head
like a
spectre
has been
swatted
away
by the
knowledge
that the
One who
did not
forsake
you
has now
drawn
you
even
closer
into
Love’s
embrace

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

Heiwa Haiku 96

you blame the victim ~
haven’t you had trauma too? ~
show some compassion

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

A Heart Of Winter

image

The day dawns cold.
Frost covered glass greets me as I enter the car,
frozen like the heart of a loved one
whose soul is pierced with the icicles of trauma and denied pain,
whose unshed tears have become an arctic lake,
whose ears only hear the wintry breath of other frozen ones,
who has rejected the divine fire,
who refuses to turn his face to the sun and let the warmth of healing love in.

Posted in The Sunday Driver: Life in the Slow Lane

A Soul’s Traumatic Ocean

image

How does one maintain a sense of self in the midst of waters filled with loved ones whose pain surrounds them like a red cloud?

How does one protect them from the sharks that circle, drawn by the smell of that same pain, closing in, jagged teeth grinding in anticipation?

How does one help them face the predatory shadows that also circle in the roiling oceans within their soul?

How does one keep the inevitable rage at the ongoing war against the trauma from leaking out into sharp words of hurt, which misfire and miss the intended targets by a mile?

How does one remain fully immersed in a love so large it moves through the maelstrom and swallows the entirety of it all, pain and predators, whole?

Posted in PEACE GROOVES

A Box of Broken Toy Soldiers

image
Original photo by Nayda Peek

Yesterday I opened my front door and stepped out into a box of broken toy soldiers.
They limped along the construction paper streets or lay shell-shocked on their cardboard beds.

I did my best to help.
I cut holes in the walls to let the light in.
I added an army of paper doll nurses.
I fashioned crutches out of clothes hangers.
I tried to glue on artificial limbs.

But I could not find a way to end the war
and when I looked up from my box of broken toy soldiers, I saw a million more.