Tag Archives: emptiness

This Old Church

My hand wraps around the banister
feeling warm wood glowing beneath the skin
climbing stairs to ancient classrooms
long stilled, the cacophony of youthful voices
echoing through rafters and down the balcony
children no longer haunt its rooms
the church’s youngest members,
from middle age and up
recall times of lessons and play
now hushed, rooms empty
since parish members were children.

The sanctuary’s seats are many
with a dividing wall 25 feet tall
to allow for overflow when needed
the organ’s pipes, overwhelmingly silent,
once rang with a sound so powerful
vibrations thumped within our chests
the organist fails to know
the music of the soul anymore

The Church was built for a time
when families faithfully attended
each Sunday, bringing children
to learn Bible rules and stories,
its storied stones and gloried stained glass
holding the congregation safe
within its all encompassing bosom

The remnant congregation,
wearing their coats against the draft
are committed, generous, active people
welcoming all who come to visit
saying prayers they will return
but times have changed
music and services need adjusting
to meet the desires of these generations
growing up outside the stone walls
without ever placing a foot within.

The Church is a wonderful place
where life can rejoice yet again
but it needs to host children,
young parents, the middle-aged
finding our way to that is the challenge
for although going to services and serving
on committees, more is still needed
so much more

My heart yearns to
sway in the arms of the Father,
raise my arms  and dance
to hear the Bible read and interpreted
giving meaning and translation
expanding the small parts within
to resonate with a defiant ring
so I can stare boldly at my Savior’s
glory and rejoice.

 

Mirrors

When I’m with you I feel real,
he said, the gentleness
in his eyes belying the fear
in his heart, the quivering
insecurity of his soul.

He is a wounded one, all right,
the pain of betrayal
steeped in his loins.

There once was a woman,
she said, who hung mirrors
in every room, every niche,
in a towering edifice
she insisted was home.

Done so she could look
and remind herself that she
still existed, that she was real.

Read the “Velveteen Rabbit”,
she said as she softly
slipped her hand into his.

Look in the mirror
and tell yourself again
and yet again,
that you are Real.

She knows that emptiness
brought on by years
of holding herself erect,
while inside she melted away,
the “who” of herself
fading from the “what”
of her life, brought to bear
upon her by those called family.

Within, she said, rests a kernel
of effervescence –
luminous, brilliant, yet
with a purity too true to destroy.

Let the mirror be your guide
into the heart of you.

Remember Me

When drafty, cold sheets
embrace you –
clean, cool air
your only companion,
wrapping bracing arms
about you . . .
remember me,
remember me.

When the only touch
lies in your own caress
and you rock back
and forth,
holding yourself,
loneliness a cloak,
ripped and tattered,
shabbily contenting an empty husk,
remember me.

As you wake with a start,
and reaching down,
feel shame
and a touch of disbelief
as your sheet
sticks with a tackiness
born of dreams . . .
Remember me.

i drank the nectar
of deep, warm recesses –
then you were gone,
leaving an empty cup
tilted over, with rusty edges
on your stand.

One morning I was held by
the savoring sweetness
of sexual desire,
next choking on a
bile of bitter rancor,
spitting out bits
of broken dreams.

So when the time comes
for you to yearn, plead,
beg for fulfilment,
wavering shadows in
the dark becoming
your only company . . .

Lick the drained cup
for the dregs of what was –
will never again be –
do this in remembrance
of me.

What’s In a Name?

Lying in bed
gazing in darkness
reaching over to touch
an empty body
between threadbare sheets
close by – but
never touching
My Husband? Lover?

Does it matter
what the name is
when the function
stays the same?
A rose by any other name, etc.
Bodies filling spaces
useful playthings
meant for frittering away
another night’s boredom.

Used for stuffing empty holes
filling excess corners
memorabilia of the mind,
cluttered junk
receded into dusty, dark places
retrieved for a quiet chuckle
on a frosty night.

What is your name?
Forget it – don’t tell me.
They all sound the same
in the end.

 

The Question

So love is where its at Baby,
and my, my how we all run
from body to body
in desperate yearning
for that one person
beyond all others
that can reach deeply
into the soul’s dark corners
and pull forth
that gift carefully hidden.

Frantically we search
for the special someone
to fill our empty places,
making a shell become whole
because so little belief
is set in our own capacity
to make ourselves complete.

Love, baby, love –
the solitary key
passed from one hand to another’s
thoughtlessly dropped
by hungry feet
that in riotous panic
throng toward gathering places –

To get lost in the crowd
but fearfully hoping
for one night of love
before the illusion is shattered
and we stand naked
before empty souls
who had too little to give
and no time to give it –
desperate and despairing –
because love wasn’t the answer anymore
but just another question.