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Literature Text
A closed and locked door
Open it
See where it leads
Your future
Is in your hands
Open the door
No vague prophecy
No predetermined path
Just your hands
Open it
See where it leads
Your future
Is in your hands
Open the door
No vague prophecy
No predetermined path
Just your hands
Literature
In March
Gray clouds on brightest blue
Slowly go thudding by.
So they buried Old Man Winter.
I say that he did not die.
The boring sun cannot blot out
The crimped dread from land and sky,
Tensing for a reckoning.
I'll burn again, by and by.
The bare trees stand straight, sky-pulled,
Against the wet and melting snow.
What has all winter clung to branch
And trunk, that makes all outlines glow?
It is not time for April rains
To lull the thing that clings to bed.
The God is on the land again,
And is singing in my head.
Literature
Not By Sight
Living blind
can turn a simple grocery run
into an altar call.
Enter good Samaritan:
no introduction,
just a hand on my arm
and a prayer
for my sight,
my wholeness,
to be restored.
Am I not whole?
My eyes took early retirement,
but that doesn’t make me
tragic,
less than;
I am
a collage of scars
and stories,
of train rides and tea leaves.
I’ve had a good life,
a hard life,
a full life.
Today, I can’t
find it in me
to gently correct her;
in society’s eyes, I am
made invisible one moment
and spotlighted the next,
ready either to stand back
or stand out.
The pressures imposed
by ableism,
by
Literature
Shelter
the room breathes with me.
the walls suck into concave lungs.
the floor exhales against my skin.
scratchy fibers from the carpet
kiss my shoulders,
leaving imprints of their touch.
part of me will be buried
in this house,
a vestige of my better self
fragments of my smile
will adhere to the windows,
seducing the sun rays,
casting prismatic silhouettes
that dance in the afternoon dust.
memories of your laughter
will seep in to the softwood,
the melody of your voice
caressing the mouldings,
echoes infused with sanctity.
and the scar of us
will live forever in the foundation.
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