Disengaged

Housekeeping
she now did online,
often sweeping clean the page
of those items which,
in the evolving course of things,
no longer fit the feng shui.
From real housekeeping she'd been
disempowered ... age 17.
While they shamed her for sneakers with skirt,
the contempt in their eyes
burned up family ties.
Thus dislocated, then stricken
with PTSD in the woods
(as the PTSD, itself, informed her,
in its details of manifestation,
when her consciousness later awakened to it
in its 20-something year of occurrence
as it occurred, once again,
beside a forest ...
herself twirling 'round, quick as a whip,
this way, then that --
for from behind which woodsy shrub or tree
would the maniacal frog-man leap?
She couldn't be quick enough
to apprehend him from any direction,
were he to pop up and strike.
To silence the battle,
she would have to go inside
and close the door.
How many times had she been defeated
by the presence of nearby forest
this way ... needing to go inside
and close the door
to silence the physical, but not visual,
flashback
to an event now blocked
from her inner sight?)
Altered within,
she could no longer memorize
any song on the piano,
nor take charge of her household landscape,
for nothing in it -- including her family --
was hers,
anymore.

Like the First Christmas

So weary am I this Christmas Eve --
not a present could I buy.
No tree, no stocking -- all is bare,
except our hearts -- no lie.
This Christmas have we to shiver through,
hard times and blankets galore.
The holy manger had no frills --
no retail in any store.

This poem was begun by me on December 24th, 2022 and concluded on December 28th.

~ Turquoise

Northeast

She sits on her bed,
unable to take leave
of blanket over toes, part-numb --
no reprieve.
The drafts drift in
as the heat drifts out;
the walls, paper-thin --
no use walking about.
Ice bites the air
behind her back;
she dreams of wood stove
and chimney stack.
Thirty degrees or so --
with heat.
Cold, cold hands
and freezing feet.

Missive

I had a dream that I'd posted an invitation to our local spiritual group meeting, and I woke up "realizing" that I would "have to cancel" that nonexistent "invitation" of mine for today. My heart sighed -- in reality -- with missing that meeting. Because it's Christmas Eve day, the meetings will resume next week. Sounds rather backwards, doesn't it? I really needed that meeting today ... when "too busy" drowns out the sublime hum of Blessed Mother's quiet, patient waiting to bear The Christ ...

I go to that meeting whenever I'm able to, because there I can find a gathering of people, coffee, desserts I'm not supposed to have, and conversation. Yes, the conversation happens to be about God, centering upon the God-man, Jesus. Now and then a morsel reaches me and probably nourishes me in the regions of my spirit I cannot see or feel. I typically don't "feel" much in regard to my faith, although I'm probably supposed to. Faith, for me, has never been based upon religious feelings about God. That would be impossible, as I've never had even the bare minimum of "religious" "feeling."

I typically find my Christianity in weeds and pebbles on the road; in abandonment, insults, heartbreak, crushed spirit, accidental musings, and moments which spark realization; in Biblical time connections which link prophetic references; and -- most rare, but treasured when it happens -- in memory found or suddenly hoped for.

This morning, I was reminded -- again, because I do try to forget at times when the teaching demands much -- of "where my bread is buttered," and Who is the source of both my bread and my butter.

It is He -- that Baby God Who was born, poor as dirt, beside the animals ... as close as possible to those pebbles and weeds.

Yes, He can be found along the road.

~ Turquoise

The Beauty of Personhood

You can call the trouble "politics,"
but for me it's not the same.
What wounds me is no invites --
no matter your party name.