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With snow-laden branches
does the tree know
the cold doesn’t last forever?
because, though laden
it stands.
The river still runs and sings
though ice opaques its running.
does the river know
what now blocks the sun
will one day sing,
will join the water’s race?
Do I know
when laden and blocked
that this pain
may become my strength
my song?
by 
Birthed of mystery
Embellished with streams and creeks and falls
I am stones- shiny smooth or
Velvet with moss
Branches overreaching
I am rushing wind and
Soft sultry dusk
I am water ouzel play-working
Wing-flap swimming
At times bright and brazen
The echoing screech of fish eagle
By season, I am somber
Then bursting
Pulsing then
Ablaze with startling scandalous scarlet and
Luminous gold
I am naked and not ashamed
All ripples then glassy sheen
Or dark and secretive
Sheltering fish from hook and line
I am rapids of whipping cream and
Ocean’s deafening swell
Yet also deep doldrums
At times unknowable
But brash and furious
I am constant
Changeless and
Born anew each instant
I speak in these many voices
Biding silence is not for this moment
by I learned
I was listening
I did as I was told
Because By God You Better Do What You’re Told!
What I heard:
Go to your room if you’re going to cry
I don’t want to hear it
Translation:
When you’re hurting, Go Away
I still do
by Suicide. Suicidal Ideation. Suicidal Tendencies.
Yes, the topic of this post is pretty much the opposite of our culture’s mandate for this to be a “jolly” time of year, the “Happ-Happiest Season of All.” Why? Because for some, for many, their (our) experience of this time of year is the opposite of that. And we need to talk about it; as individuals and as a culture, we need to talk about it much more than we do.
More than anything, I want to share with you someone else’s post on this subject. I have followed Therese Borchard for a number of years, first by reading her book Beyond Blue and then becoming an active member of a forum she started for people with mental illness called Group Beyond Blue. Therese shares from her personal life and is well- practiced on writing from the heart.
Here’s the link (you will need to copy and paste): http://thereseborchard.com/2018/11/26/dear-suicidal-person/
If someone, other than yourself, came to mind, while reading Therese’s post, please, please share it with them. More than anything else, someone who is suicidal needs to know: a) they are not alone and, b) they do not need to be ashamed. So please share!
I also encourage you to share it with anyone. Share it wide! Let’s make this a conversation we can have publicly with the goal of making it a subject that those who are suffering can discuss without fear of rejection.
I will share more poetry later (I have written more poems about this topic than any other), but just this, to end today’s post:
appreciate the soul
that hurts
when you think
there’s nothing
sharp
in the air
nothing that
pricks at
the heart.
Hold out
your hand
anyway
it is a kindness.
by I was in third grade when introduced to poetry and began spending as much time as possible in the library, reading as much verse as I could find. I was enchanted!
Maybe because this introduction hit me with such force or possibly because of the way my brain works, I often find that I think of poems in a Haiku format. It’s as if my brain is stuck on “5 syllables- 7 syllables- 5 syllables”. This happens especially when I am walking or hiking outdoors.
So, on that note, here are a few samples to honor my third grade teacher, Mrs. Kraft.
trees billow and roll
waves in this mountain ocean
green and green and green
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
from every rain
a field paints weed and flower
mouth canvas open
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
the young maple holds
its leaves after rain wind and
rain   like rebellion
by what does it mean
this time
this journey
where death
grasps me
by the wrist
is it
just a few steps
to be climbed after
I’m already
winded
from the
thousand
that came before
by years
sitting here naked
and exposed choosing
v u l n e r a b i l i t y
I pay you toÂ
LISTEN
gasping
I rip away skin
muscle
exposing what’s
inside
blood and emptiness
(you stifle a yawn behind your hand)
slowly
silently
I retrieve the shards of myself
that are strewnÂ
across the floor
and
opening my mOuth
I swallow them down
I stand and leave this place
she could not be helped they said
by   Â
don’t know
if I can
if I want to
my knees
bloody
my throat
raw
my heart
cold
because
you
do not
do
what you promise
and I
am tired
of asking
by cynicism has me by the throat
screaming valid arguments
hot spittle striking my face
but my blank stare is unwavering
because I hold nothing
in my hands anymore
not today
nor in my heart
by