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Posts Tagged ‘light’


Sometimes, when I fear
the small light I bring
isn’t big enough or bright
enough, I think of that night
on the beach years ago
when every step I took
in the cool wet sand turned
a glowing, iridescent blue—
and the waves themselves
were a flashing greenish hue—
imagine we could do
what 7.9 billion
one-celled plankton can do—
can shine when it’s dark,
can shine when agitated,
can shine with our own
inner light and trust when we all
bring the tiny light we have,
it’s enough to illumine the next step
in the long stretch of night.
 
 
 
 

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I don’t know how it is
that before I even open my eyes,
I feel it in my blood—
the small measure of light
that will arrive today.
I marvel how trust in the light
is as powerful
as the light itself.
By the time dawn comes,
already, I am glowing.
 

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One Inner Bonfire




they invite
new ways of making light—
these longest nights

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Tonight I fall in love with the mirliton
in the blue and white tutu—the way
she leaps, the way she angles her arm.
Not that I didn’t love her before
when she was a soldier, when she
was a snowflake, when she was a bon bon
or an angel in frothy white fluff. But tonight,
more than anything, it is her smile
that makes me weep in row H.
Because it is real, her joy in the chassé,
the grande jeté, the pas de bourrée.
Because her joy is my joy. Because
I know what she’s danced through
to get to this stage where that smile
spreads across her face like the sunrise
the first morning after winter solstice—
an essential, growing light aware of the dark,
just learning what it can do.

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Let’s say we gathered on the street tomorrow,
and let’s say we met in Kazakhstan
on a windy day near the Caspian Shore,
then I would say to you, as the Kazakhs do,
I see the sun on your back.
It means, Thank you for being you.
It means, I am alive because of your help.
Then I would ask to hug you and probably cry
because it’s everything, what you’ve done for me.
And as you walk away, I would marvel
at the radiance beaming from between your shoulders,
shining down your spine. It’s been so dark, and oh,
how you’ve carried me with your light.

Dear Friends, 

In the past four months, I have felt so supported, loved, blessed, encouraged. Thank you. For any way, big or small, that you supported me and my family–sending cards, lighting candles, saying prayers, reaching out to others who are struggling, and so many other beautiful gestures–I thank you. This poem is for you.
Love, 
Rosemerry

PS: This is the website I stumbled on which is a fun source for international idioms such as the one in this poem.

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Don’t even try to be strong.
            —Salli Russell


There are some who, when
they turn toward the light
become the light. But we know,
too, the power of turning
toward despair, toward
heartache, toward grief,
toward loss, toward defenselessness,
a journey in a minor key,
and this, too, is an invitation
to lean in and open until,
informed by the darkness,
we find ourselves shining,
luminous from within.

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But I found myself
rigid in the room where my son
took his life. And I sat
on the floor in the doorway
where he had last sat,
where his blood had pooled
and the air had briefly smelled
of burning. I sat there
beneath the wall
where the bullet had made
its narrow hole. I sat there
with my coil of sorrow.
I didn’t want to meet it.
I desperately wanted to meet it.
I wanted to give sorrow space.
I wanted to crawl inside it.
I wanted to be anywhere
but there on the dark wood floor
in the night dark room,
and I wanted to be wholly,
completely, obliteratingly there.
Fear-ridden, ferocious,I met it all,
felt the current pushing through.
Acceptance is a filament
that takes our resistance
and makes it bright,
makes it luminous enough
that we might see ourselves
exactly as we are.
I did not find my son
in that doorway. Perhaps
I had hoped I would.
But I saw the light
that came with me.
I softened into that light.

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We lie in the dark
and speak about anything
but what I ache to speak about.
Some part of me longs
to find the words like search lights
that will help us find
what we don’t yet know
we are looking for.
Or a black light
that might help us see
what is valuable right here,
but invisible to our ordinary eyes.
I try to infuse my words
with candlelight, but somehow
even this feels too brash,
too aggressive, and so
we lie in the dark
and I let the moon
do all the talking,
oh waning crescent,
you know when to shine,
when to simply be held
by the dark.

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Ode to the Bic Lighter


 
 
My first lighter I found in a parking lot—
a smooth red plastic tube that fit
in my pocket. I knew playing with fire
was dangerous. I knew I wanted
to learn how. I remember trying again
and again to get the right purchase
with my thumb on the serrated sparkwheel.
I rolled and rolled until my skin was raw,
until at last the brief flame sputtered then died.
It wasn’t long before it came second nature—
the smooth flick needed to produce a spark,
the slight pressure on the red tongue
to maintain steady flame.
I learned how it burns
to be lit up too long,
but once you know how to make light,
how easy it is to bring it with you
everywhere you go.

This poem is published in the wonderful ONE ART Poetry Journal

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One Devotion

these darkest days

teach me

the light of you

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