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Rated: 13+ · Book · Other · #1649158
List of poems in chapbook
Comfort Lessons

    Table of Contents

Comfort lessons                                                  
The space between the notes
Waiting for the dawn
I saw you in a dream
I stand here holding
In the quiet hours

Candlelight mantra
With softer eyes
Hurling through life unmoved
Steam
The journey of the soul

Pins and needles
Little white lies
Relief
Second chances
When I see your son, Pt. 1: Shadows lurking
The fine art of surrender
Nowhere
When I see your son, Pt 2: A bashful geisha
Chiseling teacups
Resilient soul

A poets prayer
Metronome
Oblivious
Like water
In search of the music
When I seek
Tributaries

****************
I.

Comfort Lessons

Someday I would like to feel
the space between the notes,
the silence between the falling trees,
comfortable with the breath between words.

Someday, I would like you to know
the peace between the nightmares,
the freedom of time with no demands,
the comfort of a life without fear.

Maybe then you can show me
the breath released when the hitting is over,
the relief of sound to drown out the yells,
that it’s okay to be uncomfortable with silence.

And I can teach you to play music
to the rhythm of your heartbeat,
to see the beauty of a sky raining autumn leaves,
that it’s okay to be uncomfortable with fear.

*********************************

The space between the notes

I remember the early days
of you and me in the key of C,
when the space between us, C to E,
once felt like distance,
the silence like emptiness,
wondering what went wrong.

In those days, we found that
C and D in unison
sounded a lot like chaos,
disharmony; two notes
without enough space
to breathe.

You and me in the key of C
are finally learning
to treasure the spaces
where magic can grow
and love can bloom
undisturbed.

We're learning to play
C and E, at the same time
and still leave room
to play our whole notes,
alone, in our own
moments of solitude.

May we remain confident
in the love between us, the spaces,
the silent D, the quiet distance,
without worry or doubt
that when we choose to re-unite,
our notes will still resonate in harmony.

For now I truly believe that fearing silence,
the space between the notes,
is like fearing love itself.

*****************************************

Waiting for the Dawn

It’s dark and you are sleeping, 
but I lie awake beside you
and wonder what to make
of all the dreams I had,
those I left by the wayside
not long after we were wed.

Should I still be chasing them
long past the time they were born,
or are the new ones just as real,
the ones that were born with our boys,
the ones that came while loving you?
I hold onto them like it’s me I fear losing.
Every lost year, each missed opportunity
like a leaf falling to the ground. 

I look outside my window,
watching for the dawn to arrive,
and standing there are two maple trees.
Both are bare, yet still very much alive,
holding up the birds until the seasons change
knowing that once again, their arms will be full
of new possibilities, new dreams, new life.
And neither are shedding tears for the piles at their roots,
the leaves discarded when the sun hides its face.
They seem to know that tomorrow, life will return. 

I smiled as I watched you, your breathing
no longer paced, no longer dreaming,
postponing the morning hour, playing possum.
You, waiting for the dawn, wondering
what to make of all the dreams you had
the ones you left by the wayside when we were wed.

Look outside, I whispered just under my breath,
let’s be like the trees with our arms outstretched,
holding up our boys like the birds, until the leaves return.
Then, maybe, we’ll no longer mourn what we never lost.

******************************************

I saw you in a dream

I saw you in a dream
with my great-grandmother
in a room lit by the heavens
standing in the doorway,
holding hands.

You were two or three. 
Your straight, dark hair touched your shoulders.
Mammye looked like she did when I was just a kid.
As you both walked toward me, 
I almost saw your face

then the phone rang
and I lost you.


**************************************

I stand here holding

I stand here holding you
as if you were my own.
Your hair like mine,
is dark and shiny.
No one needs to know
how your tiny hands,
your sweet smell, tug
my heart and soul.

I would take you home,
you know, and love you
with every beat of this heart
that thumps, but gently,
so as not to wake you. 
My breath goes out and in
while yours goes in and out;
our bodies in conversation. 

You cannot speak
but I know you are wondering
things I cannot answer. 
Where is she?  Is she coming back?
But its not for us to know,
only know that I am here.
And you are here, now, for me to hold.
The two of us

bound in a world of need
You, for a mother.  Me, for a child.
And yet we have each other,
for this stolen moment
before you are taken to your new home
and I return to mine,
with empty arms. Hoping.
But I cannot be saddened

by the loss of what I never had
and you, my child, cannot mourn
what you never knew. Promise me,
when you meet your new mother,
let your heart beat with hers,
breathing together in your private conversation
and do not fret.  She will love you as I have,
and perhaps, you will be hers forever.


*************************************************
In the quiet hours

You, not flesh and bone,
yet hungry as an orphan
seeking love from strangers
who smile.

You, begging me to feed you
words, only words, but your insistence
keeps me up at night, like a child
afraid of the dark

only you are afraid of the silence,
the still mind, a mother
sidetracked by life,
your brothers needing me.

You, the child of my imagination,
an amalgam of three miscarriages,
my muse, you tug at me
in the quiet hours, whispering,

Write, mama, write. We have a story to tell,
mama, come, sit by me. Pick up the pen,
you know what you need to say,
what they need to hear.

You, my angel, my spirited little one,
I write this for you, but now you must sleep.
Rest assured my child,
you will not go unnoticed.

**************************************************************
**************************************************************
II.

Four Poems of Introspection:
An exercise in Chinese Poetry and human nature


1.

Faults, like scarlet flags, are waved
While they commune over regrets and mistakes
In rehab, they gather at the exit door, smoking.
Where do the rest of us go for redemption?

2.

Ideas play ping pong between my deafened ears.
Conversations are held without listening.
It is silent and the trees are still just after a storm.
If only the trees could teach my mind about stillness.

3.

Papers, bosses, clients, and phones
play tug of war with my attention.
Today, I heard a toddler in a grocery store shout "No!"
My heart was full of envy.

4.

Dismissed by the cynics, still they dream.
Restricted by the ignorant, still they learn.
A yellow flower breaks through stone in a desert.
Nothing on this earth can restrain those who are determined.


*********************************************
Candlelight Mantra

With tear-stained eyes,
my mantra is a prayer, this night.
"Don't let me be like those
who, without sight, spread
darkness 'cross my candlelight"

But what a fight this is, I thought. 
My words, it seems, stew quietly
beneath my breath. Then,
moistened by my cheeks aflame,
steam fogs my somber shades,
like asphalt after summer rain.

It's so hard for me to see
that just below my fear and rage,
surrender waits for my embrace.
But finally, in these arms I lie,
and hear the poet's soft reply
in words transcending black and white.

"You cannot be like those you see
whose light has slipped beneath the leaves
because, you see, you know of me.
My arms are here for you to seek.
So take a breath and let it out,
make into words a silent shout.

Then take your little lamp with you
and share your light where others do.
Feel their warmth until the time
your flame provides the bread and wine
to nourish the soul and calm the mind.
And most of all, be fair and kind
to yourself, my friend, be always kind."

And so I seek, and then I write,
a poet watching timid light
dance upon the candlewick,
with prayers of thanks upon my lips.

*****************************************************
With Softer Eyes/

Is it the journey I fear
or what awaits; the leaving I fear
or what I must leave behind?
Is it the changes to come
or fear of nothing changing at all?
Am I praying for peace,
or just hoping the war will stop?
These fears rest heavy like a stone, not far
away from my beating heart. The echo,
a cadence that guides my walk.
Tears from my eyes yearn to join
the pond before me, so I let them
while I questioned my purpose here.
What did I think I would achieve,
coming here, to stare at trees,
to empty my eyes of fear,
when what I feared the most
was waiting at the end of my path?

Tired, I relaxed my eyes, let things blur a bit,
and that is when I saw with softer eyes
the green of the boughs, the wounds of the pine.
Battle scarred and crying sap, the roots
into the water tapped. Its branches held
a wealth of life, its roots forever
anchored tight. The green stretched upward
to the sky and shielded the earth
from the burning light. And I was awed
at this new sight, my eyes, now cleansed from fear.
I walked with courage up the path, looking back
once more, and there I saw the stone I carried
beside my heart, lying there beneath the tree,
a place to sit for someone like me. But I have heard
that echo sound, and once it was a fearful sound,
but now it calls me home again, to challenges no so severe
as lightning through the pine.
But if I am to make it through, I must be sure
to nourish roots, to be unafraid to weep sometimes, just like the old
and fruitful pine.  I must stretch out my branches ‘til
they shield my children and other’s still.  And when some
lonely one comes near, I’ll not hide from my deepest fears,
I’ll lay them bare beside the stone.

It could be the one you’re sitting on.

***********************************************************

Hurling Through Life Unmoved

As we fly through the clouds,
the speeding wind divides.
We're moving faster than sound.
And yet, we feel nothing,
insulated in this steel enclosure
amid countless souls we’ll never meet.
We’ve never heard their stories, their desires.
Our cares, our worries, never crossed their minds.
We sit inches away. Skin meets skin.
We move and say, "sorry"
for the careless touch.
But still, we yearn
for a gentle caress, to feel the wind
carry our souls, to drift upon water,
to rise with the waves.  And yet,
we’re paralyzed by fears of falling,
drowning, losing who we are, who we love.
We peer through our little plastic windows,
as we journey through the darkness
with souls we’re afraid to meet.
We imagine ourselves standing
tall upon the wings,
arms outstretched,
the wind roaring in our ears.
Deafened by the sound
of impossible dreams,
we close the shades, plug our ears,
and insulate our minds
from the sounds of human life.
We’re caught between the speeding wind
and loneliness, yearning for connections,
too stubborn to commit.
We believe we’re safely buried
in the stagnate sands of denial,
only to find we're lonely, calloused stones
hurling through life unmoved.

But, pilots and dreamers know the secret.  We can't
soar through the clouds if we’re afraid to lift off.
We can't be grounded if we’re afraid to fall.
If we stall mid-flight, we’ll die.
And if we’re content to hurl through life unmoved,
we might want to prepare for a rough landing.

****************************************************

Steam

From my cold toes, nearly submerged in a tub of hot water,
tangles of steam arose and twisted like signals from a fire,
like mutterings of apprehension, fear, even hope,
a prayer offered up just in case someone was listening.

My son ran to the tub in panic. "Mommy, your feet are on fire!"

That night, I had a four year old afraid of taking a bath.
Thought his toes might catch on fire. 
I never was that good at physics but I tried to explain. 

I told him it was like water hitting a hot skillet, 
or a light Southern rain on asphault after a boiling afternoon. 

My mother used to tell me, "Where there's smoke, there's fire." 

But steam,  steam is like stepping cold into a crisis for which we have no solution.
It may look like smoke from a distance but nothing is burning but fear.

Perhaps, where there's steam, there's someone who jumped in
despite the fear and their spirits are lighter
for having risen to the challenge.


******************************************************
The Journey of the Soul

The soul of a journey
is the sweet anticipation
of the open road, but only
if there is freedom of passage
and no boundaries to behold.

But how often are we travelers
alone on the journey
with no one there to dictate,
by control or passive sigh,
when to eat, or where to rest the eye.

But in the journey of the soul,
we are completely in control,
of who we let inside ourselves,
and who we must keep out, and
what we feel and think about.

And what sweet pleasure
to choose the lesser path,
the different one to travel with,
the forgotten jewel on the back shelf,
the creator’s gift to present ourselves.

What liberating tear will fall
from choices made without much thought,
for mistakes survived and overcome,
for the realization from whence we’ve grown,
a tear of our own making, a tear of joy.

From ties that strangled, ties that bound,
there’s something greater I have found,
the courage to stretch, without the rage,
the grace to surrender without heartbreak,
and the acceptance of strings that ground.

So now, in my growing years,
I look no different to other’s stares,
but my baggage and I are traveling far,
beyond the ethereal world of fears.
Perhaps, we’ll find each other there.

*************************************************************

III.

Pins and needles

She made a monument of pain
in her closet wall as a child
with her mother’s straight pins.
One for each angry word,
one for the back of her mother’s hand on her cheek.
Rows of pins lined up in the sheetrock
like tiny bars in a prison.
In her cell, the tails of hung clothing

brush her curls, wiping the tears from her eyes
as she stuck in the wall yet another pin.
One more reminder of her mother’s disappointment.
One more reminder that she shared her father’s eyes.
Little metal sculptures, cages, little trophies,
those pins so precisely placed were to remind her
of every way she wasn’t good enough,
and of every cut whittled from her soul.

Now, I write her words, and I can see
half a century later, that little girl crying in her closet,
tears cooling her slapped cheeks,
a single pin grasped tightly in her hand
as she pokes it in the closet wall with indignant intent
promising herself, when she has a child one day,
she will not be that kind of mother.
And she has kept her promise.

She was raised on pins and needles
but gave me words and colors
to say what I felt, to see the beauty of my world
without fear and uncertainty.
I write these words to reach that little girl.
I pray my words can wipe the tears from her soul,
and soothe the wounds I can only imagine.
I write to say thank you for being the mother she never had.


***************************************************************
Little White Lies

How easily I fool you.
You, who think you know the truth
and yet would never ask
You, who believe your little white lies
are polite necessities.

I clothe my arms in the miserable heat
but your good manners prevent prying.
I fret about the time I must leave.
You say, "surely he won't mind
if you're a few minutes late, sweety."

You see the marks but accept my excuses.
My reasons are believable. 
I am that good.
But do you really think I cannot walk
without tripping over my shadow?

You apologize with your knowing smile,
polite but powerless, unwilling to interfere.
And yet, if you asked, really cared, 
I would probably still tell you
a little white lie.


******************************************************
Relief

I drop a glass
It breaks; I freeze
No one comes
No one yells
My heart lifts
I drop another and smile
I am free

*******************************************************
Second Chances

She stares in the mirror
Who is this person I see;
addict, mother, woman,
a survivor of the beast?

Such a price she's had to pay
For hitting the bottom of the well;
a year of memories lost,
but the end of a life of hell.

She lies on her bed,
eyes trained toward the daughter
for whom she gave birth and lost,
missing a year of her life, a lifetime to her.

Sleeping soundly, her child is not aware
of the battles fought by her mother
Dreams of parenthood dashed,
In her drive to choose another.

The child knows only the care
Of foster family, and mother
Who have both loved and lost her
And learned to trust each other.

Mixed blessings by one mother
Fearing failure; doubting success,
Appreciation and resentment
By the other, now put to rest.

Light prevails over darkness
As she promises for the day
To choose survival and healing,
And keep addiction at bay.

Trusting eyes reappear as she scoops up her child,
Impervious to judgmental glances,
They waltz among strangers to the glorious sound
Of recovery and second chances.

********************************************
When I See Your Son, Pt. 1: Shadows lurking

When I see your son, I see a flicker of light in his eyes,
but shadows lurk behind them, waiting to douse the flame.
In your drunken stupor, you back him into corners.
No place to go but trouble, no home to go but yours.
Where can he go, your son? Without you, he’ll survive,
but you’re always around, a drink in one hand, the other in a fist. 

When he sees you, he sees empty promises, broken commitments,
the other shoe he knows will fall.  He’s damned if he does, and if he doesn’t.
And you stand there, a smug look on your face, calling the cops,
thinking of how much he reminds you of his father, or could it be your father
ashamed of you, what you’ve become; each drink, a jagged knife in his chest,
twisting over and over.  His respect and yours have long been absent.

When I see you, I see a mere shadow lurking, waiting to extinguish his flame,
and I know it’s been a long time since you’ve felt the warmth of your own fire. 
When I saw your son today, I saw a life yet unlived, potential yet unreached,
but there was still that light, the flame still flickering, still yearning,
for another chance at childhood.  He's still eager to prove he's so much more
than what stands before you when you see your son.

******************************************************

The fine art of surrender

The boy cannot thrive with an empty belly
or a slap across the face.  He cowers deep inside himself,
concealing his innocence, his dreams, his muse.
         He grows, in size and fear,
He listens for the sounds of footsteps,
heavy with malice.  A sound.  He freezes,
sucks in his breath, as the crash from the icemaker
leaves his heart pounding.  Days like this,
he’s left with nothing but luck and foolishness.
         and learns the muse cannot survive
He learns he can shut down the flow of emotion
like a valve, a faucet.  Better cold than afraid.
He shows no fear, but his soul dies a little.
         unless it has a place to hide.
He wants to belong but sounds of footsteps
choke off his hopeful song.  In places
dark and lonely, he mourns again, this abandonment. 
Even his inner fire threatens to grow dim.
         He questions and learns
Finding absence in himself, he searches for his muse
In the love and affection of a skittish woman. Each move
he makes, she moves further away; an endless game of chase. 
He finds no other answer but to stop and wait.
         the fine art of surrender.
Sitting still without a word, he is alone and losing hope
this woman will reciprocate the love he needs to show.
Just as his eyes grow heavy, he hears the cadence
of feet on the hardwood floor.  The wounded child within him
weeps for the lost anticipation of a simple footstep,
the giddy excitement of a parent, a visitor, a friend.
He whispers to the one he cannot see,
“I am only me.  All I can offer you is this.”
         That is when she finds him.
Just then, she wraps her arms around him in warm embrace,
While upon his head she plants a gentle kiss.
         Sometimes, muses can be like this.

***************************************************
Nowhere

I’m not going anywhere.
I will wait for you to learn
not to flinch with my touch,
not to see malice in my actions,
or conspiracy in my words.

I will wait past your fears.
Love you through the moments
when pushing me away
is your mind’s way
of saving you.

I will wake up beside you
even when you go to bed alone,
in your heart, having built a wall
even God will have trouble penetrating.
My love, I am going

nowhere.

********************************************

When I see your son, Pt. 2: The bashful geisha

When I see your son, I see a man on eggshells.  Emotions,
a foreign land where secrets go unshared, still buried, and family codes
remain unbroken.  He’s always waiting for the other shoe to fall. 
When I’m with your son, there’s tension beneath the surface. 
To him, suggestions are complaints, questions are interrogations,
favors are suspect.  He wants to know what I want in return, what’s the catch.

But above the surface, he's a good father and husband,
astonished at the wonder of his sons, and baffled at how you
could allow your own needs to bury the needs of your family. 
When he’s with his sons, and hears their infectious laughter, 
he can’t imagine how that beautiful sound could pale in comparison
to the amber liquid that that fulfills you.

When you see your son, does his face remind you
of your own insecurity? He asked me once
why you court your death like a bashful geisha,
hiding your face behind a fan while you stand naked,
daring to be used up, devoured; yet too afraid to watch. 

When I see your son, your grandsons, I pray they choose
a different path.  But know this.  They are watching you. 
One day your fan will fall, and your actions will not go unnoticed. 
But that is an empty threat, isn’t it? Will you even be alive
long enough to see the ripples your actions have put into motion
with every sip from your liquid companion?




***************************************************

Chiseling Teacups

You hold the chisel,
bracing it on the cracks
of your porcelain veneer,

widened by unforgotten slights,
unforgiven wounds
festering with time.

My intentions, to you,   
hammers waiting
to chisel at your teacup

when all I ever wanted
was to offer you a cube of sugar
to sweeten my words.

*****************************************
Resilient Soul

You are made of
all the days you’ve
been knocked down
and found your way.
You reach the surface,
take a breath,

ride the waves, rest a while.
You yearn for the day
you'll finally break
the mold from which
you thought you were made.

But you, dear friend,
are so much more
than flesh and bone,
or loss and love.
There is no form
from which they made
your mind and spirit, your
resilient soul.
What they see,
they cannot hold,
for you already
broke the mold.

Go forth young mother,
writer, friend. Reach out
for life; don’t hold it in. You're not
the sum of your mistakes. They are
but beacons to light the way

as your world forms words
you were born to create.

*************************************************************
************************************************************

IV.

A poet's prayer

I asked for forgiveness
and I got a cold shoulder.

I asked for stillness
and my body shook with grief.

Then I asked for peace
and I found poetry.

What more could I ask?

************************************************************


Metronome

My heart,
you are my metronome.
You measure seconds,
beats in the hours of my days
like internal drums
tapping away the time
I have left in this world.

But Metronomes don't measure
moments with family,
the sound of my sons
giggling out loud,
a wink at the dinner table
over a funny joke,
the love we have for each other.

And Metronomes can't measure
the impact of a difficult year
of loss and gratitude,
of dreams of parenthood,
of learning how to march
to the sound of our own beats
together as one.

My heart, my Metronome,
through all your faults and limitations,
without you, I could not dance
to the tempo of tiny footsteps
on the hardwood floors,
hear the sweet sound of
my children’s laughter,
or share my love of life
with the ones I love.

So I pray to you, my metronome,
for a hint before your job is done.
I’ve much to treasure here on earth
and I’m just not ready for the journey home.

*********************************************************
Oblivious

You, with your acne scarred face and spiky hair,
a teen with childlike fantasies alight in your imagination,
you talk of dinosaurs still roaming the Earth
and mourn their deaths again and again.
You're odd and unaccepted among peers, yet oblivious
of their belief that you're insignificant.

You sit in the backseat of my car, your new CD blaring
a Christian song I’ve never heard and I ponder your God,
my God.  You, with so few gifts but that one,
your voice, resonating with a song you’ve never heard.
Arms raised up to the heavens, you declare your faith, “praise God”
you proclaim.  Without reservation, without a doubt, He is yours. 

And somehow, the weight of your liabilities, the burden of you
is carried back home where you began, a twinkle in His eye.
It's as if God says, “Let’s see if they can find
the golden needle in the haystack,
or will they merely see the impossibility of you
and turn their backs in frustration.”

God does have a sense of humor and I think you were in on the joke.
On the way home from that hospital
we put kids when they act strange or unwise,
for just a moment between my embarrassment and empathy,
I saw a golden glint in your eye.  In the harmonious notes of your song,
I heard the sound of that haystack shifting

from the weight of our worries for you, our fears about you. 
And I pray we never lose sight of that needle,
while we seek our own lost faith, shifting haystacks as we search. 
Maybe, if we found our own glimmer of hope, we could sing like you,
with you, out loud, among people we scarcely know,
oblivious to our fear of insignificance.

*****************************************************************
Like Water

To others, you are a calm surface,
waves gently lap the sandy beach, unwilling
to knock down a child’s castle,
or allow your undertow to erode the earth.
Your impressions upon the sand, visible but impermanent.
To them, you hold up those around you like water under a raft,
provide energy and motivation without need for thanks,
and reflect the sun for a breathtaking portrait.
But, my dear friend, I have watched you,

listened to your soul. And I now believe
you are the current that leads others to strive
for a deeper understanding.  You are
the intricate tunnels among the reef and coral,
allowing entry to some, holding others at bay,
unwilling to endanger those you love.
You are the ripples that transmit a positive attitude
and loving spirit.  Expecting the waves to cause others
to make their own ripples, your reach becomes unlimited.

You are the storm as well as the calm, so that others
will appreciate the gift you provide when you choose
to offer nourishment, to fill their glass
half-full, knowing full well that sometimes, your glass
is half-empty instead.  Like the babble among rocks,
you offer bubbling music to soothe others to sleep,
but you also expect others to refill the brook, not to siphon.
You are the ocean, the waves, the brook, the stream,
the soothing, the current, the deluge, the drizzle,

and for all who know you, my wish is that they learn
to love you as water, with all its faults and gifts, and
to remember that they get from you what they offer.
As waves can carry or flood, tears can smile or weep,
the love of a strong and quiet woman
cannot be harnessed or misused,
but must always be appreciated
for gifts she chooses to offer and for the powerful
spirit she holds below the calm waters.

*************************************************************

In search of the music

There was a space between us
where the music once lived.

I tried to listen for it,
in the silence between your words,
the cadence of your footsteps,
the pause before your sigh.

Just beyond the anticipation
of your measured chord,
I heard the merest hum
of a deep and mournful song.

But I was too busy searching
for a lighter note to match
the staccato rhythm of my tapping feet,
a metronome on caffeine.

But as we've grown together,
a funny thing has happened. Your
quiet and steady beat has trained my ears
to really listen, not just hear, your subtle tones,

and my voice has learned
it can sing its own melody.

************************************************************
When I Seek

When I seek your wisdom, your quiet strength,
you listen without a word.  The sight of you soothes my soul.

When I seek an embrace from your crooked and tangled arms, you hug me.
And although I cannot feel your touch upon my skin, I know your love.

When I seek safety and solace, you hold me up in your net of branches
and I rest there, without fear of falling, yet my feet remain firm upon this earth.

It's midnight and I seek you once more.  Your branches against the foggy midnight landscape once appeared frightening and foreboding.   

That was before you touched my soul. 
Now, I can no longer deny the spirit within you. 

*************************************************************
Tributaries

Come, flow with me down tributaries unknown.
Meander through lazy turns and streams.
Work with me to wear down the rough edges
of stones blocking our way. 
Prepare for waterfalls, rapids. 
Hold my hand, there lies danger.
Grasp tightly as we strike with force
the larger body of yang, the river of anger.
Misguided souls, driving to succeed
will leave the unfortunate ones dizzy
from never-ending cycles in an eddy.
Do not panic, she is among you and will teach you

to embrace the gentle currents toward the Great Mississippi,
to drift upon rafts down the wide expanse of waterway,
flowing seaward with purpose, without malice.  That is,
unless she’s held back, re-formed to fit a mold
the Creator did not intend.  If her path be disturbed,
make ready for the floods.  But if she’s allowed to flow freely,
you will find yourself where river meets ocean,
where potential is eternal and yang is laid to rest,
giving way to yin, to wisdom, to majesty.  But beware,
all you who join us there.  This bountiful ocean
is not one to be misjudged or mistreated. 
There is tremendous wisdom in her vastness and depth. 

So it is with the keeper of faith, the nurturer, the grail,
your mother, sister, daughter, or grandmother,
by blood or by choice.  She is a force to behold,
for she has traveled far, left stones transformed,
been displaced by the whims of man,
and the upheavals of Earth.  Shed your misgivings,
ambition, mistrust. Take her hand, she who has made it
to the sea in peace, content in her choices, void of regret. 
Seek this woman of whom I speak, for not all
have lived her trials.  This woman, she’ll make herself known to you. 
Go to her, and she will unveil the mysteries of your life,
for she has cut mountains, carved stones, parted for great men
and still she has the grace to hold you in her arms. She has contained
countless souls within her womb, allowed them to swim in her tranquil waters,
protected from the pain of this world. Offer yourself to her,
for through all your faults and insecurities, your name, like the
signatures of tributaries, will remain forever etched upon her weathered face.

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