24 Saturday Jul 2021
Posted in Poetry
The universe told me
Our hands are empty,
They do not contain miracles
Or, even wise words.
Moment by moment,
Only moments,
The brokenness of hearts,
A temporary rise to our feet,
As if to help,
but we didn’t–Did we?
Because our hands are empty.
13 Sunday Jun 2021
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Belief, Death, Death Poems, drought, Dying, God, Heat, Hope, Horse Poem, Horse Poems, Horse poetry, Horses, Life, Loss, Love, Miracles, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Prayer, Sacred, Sun, Survival, weeds
Drought year,
Everything is dying early.
We realize what is hearty,
And what is not.
Weeds, they multiply,
Even after we spray,
As if they know,
This is their time.
They sink taproots,
And suckle what is left
Of underground aquifers.
We’re breaking heat records in June;
The sweltering, unrelenting sun
Is just getting started.
How many trips to the barn,
Down this cackling road?
The day I saw the barn cat
Kill father Robin–
It was an ominous sign
For the foal.
And then I succumbed
To this hackling cough.
Death is a time for prayer,
Calling out
for whatever hope God can spare.
Cries sent, not into a dark night,
But a hideous brightness.
13 Sunday Jun 2021
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Death, Death Poems, Dying, Fear, Fear of Death, Hope, Horses, Life, Loss, Love, Miracles, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Prayer, Souls, Survival, Yearning
When death gets a foothold,
You don’t know who it will take.
Souls grow heavy with guilt,
And the weight of silence.
Hope, a fragile light;
It fuels us.
Small, but mighty.
We wait for miracles;
They are fickle things,
Miracles.
23 Saturday Feb 2019
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Coffin Bone, Cowboy, Desperation, God, Gods, Horses, Lame, Miracles, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Prayer, Survival
If you don’t have a hoof,
you don’t have a horse.
He was dead lame,
broken coffin bone,
leg extended out in pain,
as if imploring me to mend
his severed part.
Heart of my heart,
I can only offer prayer,
to the gods who love horses,
as much as we love gods to care.
25 Thursday Sep 2014
Posted in Uncategorized
Tags
Code Blue, Death, Emergency Room, Fear of Death, Hospitals, Miracles, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Surgery
Immediate resuscitation required.
Sorrow begins in the pharynx,
Descends to the heart and lungs,
Or so you think, because it hurts,
Then, you’re bawling.
You’re sure they announced,
Room nineteen, Code Blue,
Watched enough ER to know
He must be dead or dying.
But then you think,
Because you can’t believe,
Really, such tragedies happen to yours,
Maybe Code Blue means something else,
Like, Get here fast and help,
And, as you start to console yourself,
Convince yourself you were wrong,
The nurse returns to where you sit,
Tells you it was a different Room 19,
A different person in Code Blue,
And you’re relieved,
Utterly relieved, and free.
Until today,
When you begin to wonder
If someday, someone will be relieved
You’re the one in Room 19, Code Blue,
Rather than their own,
Precious, little boy.
26 Tuesday Aug 2014
Posted in Uncategorized
I remember what it was like
To be unstricken,
To think my life would go on,
To think I was owed a spot here,
And that spot was permanent.
Once your body lets the thing
Grow, you understand something else,
That mercy comes in miracles:
The Canada Geese overhead are miracle,
The smell of your son’s hair is miracle,
The arms of your friend wrapped ’round you,
Saying, it will be okay, is miracle.
Love is a miracle.
That we can be loved is a miracle.
I asked only that I’d see my son graduate,
And I did. That is a miracle.
I am a stricken one.
I was stricken long ago.
I’m part of the great finite,
And I’m part of the great forever,
So in need of mercy,
So thankful for miracles.
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