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~ …might I be found in words I leave behind

tornadoday

Tag Archives: alone

maps we drew in darkness ~

08 Friday Jan 2021

Posted by tornadoday in Poetry, spirituality

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

alone, brokenness, enduring, faith, ignorance, knowing, life, love, maps, refuge, sorrow, surrender, tears, truth

I’ve spent some time
in disbelief –
with years to wonder why
mornings washed
a flood of tears –
yet not a one to dry

not a one to
understand –
and ne’er a will to know
beds made up with thistle
and left along
the road

with none to share
who can say
they knew far better than
those who dream of dying –
who walk a broken land

who decides
and who condemns
the ways for which we came
with maps we drew in darkness –
hurts we gave
our name

. . .

as easy then ~

13 Monday Aug 2018

Posted by tornadoday in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

alone, ee, life, love, moments, poem, rambling, seeing in the dark, separate, sometimes, sweet warmth, trust, truth, words

sweeter

comfort settles
at the edge of the floor
just below the joint
where the wall would meet
it’s enough to make you crazy
suffocation (I’ve heard it called)
a fog spreading (honey)
to every splintered board
every missing nail
touching – loving
warming intoxication

sweeter comfort
could not be – than this
erasing every past
every damaged heart
every far away
you dreamed of
trading places with worlds
you might have died for
(did you not)

til all you know (is this)
nothing more could be recalled
not even the moment
it happened
(a mist beyond the glass)
ready to run
you turned into the light
as easy then
(o it isn’t anymore)
now you wait
unable to move beyond
hurts you gave into
(inviting)
fog still burns you breathing
ache that knows your name

clings to every piece
of you remembered

. . .

life beyond the leaving ~

06 Tuesday Mar 2018

Posted by tornadoday in Poetry, Rambling

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

acceptance of something so very far from happiness, alone, divorce, heartbreak, leaving, letting go, life, life beyond the leaving, lonely, loss, love, missing, separateness, sorrow, time, truth

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

how is it
I’ve grown weary
of the way you sip your tea –
the way you smile so unaware
of grief
that anchors me

every day –
in ten thousand ways
tho I cannot tell you why
the nights grow cold –
and I remiss
at telling you goodbye

as it was
before – as cannot be
your hand a comfort then
your voice – a whisper pining
a soulful welcome in

I wonder if you notice
or do you wonder as I do
of life beyond
the leaving –
a barter carried through

has it been years
or more to count
this distance now I feel
words without the strength to speak –
a hurt that will not heal

. . .

Author’s Note: Before you get concerned for me, I feel the need to explain. This isn’t about me, but rather the result of a conversation with a dear friend – one who has stayed beyond the leaving.

voices ~

04 Wednesday Jun 2014

Posted by tornadoday in a time for telling, Storytelling

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

age, alone, changes, conscious consciousness, dispair, fear, forgiveness, knowledge, life, living, memory, mental illness, questions, rambling, restless, retreat, self, time, woman

itsallcomingbacktomenow

When does it end, she wondered.

I hate this wallpaper. I wish I could remember who it was that thought this was a good pattern for me.

(probably your mother or someone else long gone)

It’s a good thing.

She wasn’t going to pee. It was obvious now. She’d tried all the usual tricks: turning on the faucet, focusing, even pressing against that little bowl right at the base of her spine.

It isn’t really a bowl; I’m not sure it has a name.

(does it matter; it isn’t working)

No, but then again, she hadn’t really expected it to. When she tried explaining it to her doctor, he grunted (she was sure) and gave her a look. You know the one – the one that says you’ve convinced yourself of something that isn’t true.

Maybe I should change doctors.

(really)

Yeah, well, that wasn’t going to happen unless he died. But she’d thought several times that it made her uncomfortable for him to know her so well.

(shouldn’t he)

How long had it been?

Almost forty years. How was that possible? And yet, with each visit, she saw the proof in him that she was getting older. She had toyed with the idea of finding someone else, it was never a thought she took seriously.

Who could I trust?

(who do you need to trust; trust with what; the fact that you no longer have hair where you used to and what is there, isn’t the same color)

Still.

Still she didn’t feel quite the weight of years as long as there was someone who knew how she got to ‘here’. She read once of a device that would allow you to carry all of your medical history with you, on a string around your neck. But what about the other history, the stuff that couldn’t be seen with an x-ray or pulled from strands of dna? How did loss look under a microscope? She was proof that some scars couldn’t be seen.

She bit the inside of her mouth, as if somehow the tears would spill forward to her tongue instead of down her face.

. . .

Author’s Note: Why I don’t write novels – she’d never get out of the bathroom.

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