Day Twenty-Three #poemadayfeb: Sonnet

I fling the light from behind my eyes

As an offering to the star-filled night

Veiled in the affliction of my demise

May darkness take captive my sight.

That I cannot see the sorrow of grief

Just one night free from these thorns

Blood abandons my side with no relief

How wearily my wasted heart mourns.

Sleep is aloof in these arms of regret

She comforts me like a cheap whore

The barren hours won’t let me forget

Shattered pieces I can never restore.

But when this broken night is through,

My love, may I be no more lost to you.

~ ©️ Kathy Parker // Sonnet for the Sleepless ~

Day Twenty-Three #poemadayfeb: Sonnet

Day Nine #poemadayfeb: The View From My Window

And one day

you will come to learn

it isn’t just iron bars

that cage our hearts,

and freedom

can’t always be found

in the wide and open spaces.

⁃ note to my younger self

Day Nine #poemadayfeb: The View From My Window

Your Mess Is Mine

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Bring me to your house
Tell me, “Sorry for the mess”
Hey, I don’t mind
You’re talking in your sleep
Out of time
Well you still make sense to me
Your mess is mine
~ Vance Joy

Some days there is only mess. Days when our hearts rip open and there is tissue and muscle and membrane everywhere and all our brokenness comes undone and we bleed out onto the ground.

Sorry for the messSorry for the mess. Sorry for the mess. 

There’s nothing pretty about our hearts as they bleed, about our humanity as we suffer.  There’s nothing pretty about rejection, brokenness, abandonment, misunderstanding, cruelness, sadness, pain, hate. There’s nothing pretty about the way we are sliced open by ourselves, by others, by trauma, abuse, memories, nightmares, triggers, words.

Sorry for the mess. Sorry for the mess. Sorry for the mess. 

We are so ashamed of our mess. Ashamed of our humanity, of our ugliness. We’ve been told not to cry, to quiet down, to not show our feelings, to not make a scene.

We’ve been told to not make a mess.

Sorry for the mess. Sorry for the mess. Sorry for the mess. 

But to be human is to be messy. To feel, to love, to hate, to hurt, to cry, to grieve, is all messy. And the worst thing we can do is make others feel ashamed of their mess, to make them feel wrong in their humanity, as though they need to hide it, need to clean up their mess before anyone sees it.

The most beautiful gift we can give one another is to step into their messiest place and say, “Hey, I don’t mind.” To look around at the mess, the chaos, the blood all over the ground, and make sense of them when they can no longer make sense of themselves.

To hear them say it:

Sorry for the mess. Sorry for the mess. Sorry for the mess. 

And to love them enough to say, “Your mess is mine.”

 

 

 

Winter In My Bones

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“The leaves fall gently and like autumn she brings sadness. The leaves are left behind and winter’s in my bones.” ~ Cat Empire

These lyrics repeat in my mind, over and over. They are so on point for me this week. Winter remains stuck in my bones and somewhere there’s a way to cure this sadness but I cannot find it. No amount of rest or sleep or yoga or books or words or herbal tea or music will shift this relentless winter from my bones.

It’s not one thing that causes this dull ache of winter within me. It never is just one thing. It’s an accumulation of busyness, tiredness, stress, demand, pressure, obligation. It’s all things, everything, that leads to a sense of being overwhelmed, where both mind and body collapse, though I’m never sure which one perpetuates the other.

I just know winter is here and with her comes defeat, frustration, impatience, anger. There is lack of motivation and inspiration. There is no creativity. And so winter too brings grief. No words fall from me. Instead pages remain empty as the bitter gale cuts through my skin and seeps into my marrow that shrivels against its spite. Words are always my way back to life and without them there is no life, only a numb detachment that leaves my mind as blank as the page in front of me.

But it’s during these times of winter I must yield to the season and all she offers to teach me, if only I should be silent enough to hear. For if I allow it, winter also brings stillness, reflection and surrender. It brings quiescence. It brings dormancy.

And most importantly, it brings transformation.

For winter is a time when the deep work of the heart is done. And if I can learn to resist the fight and find a way to sit with her, she will do her work within me. She will bring change, renewal, life. In her time, not mine.

Winter is my preservation, and I no longer fight against it. Instead, I choose to surrender. For I know there is a work being done that I cannot see. And though I may not yet understand what that is, what I do understand is that spring always comes when the work is complete.

Always.

Photo credit: Robert Wnuk via unsplash.com