Pray, Prey

"Praying is asking; meditation is listening"

At what point-if any-does saintly
become so sacrificial
that death is its ultimate end?

When, if ever, does the heart of an angel,
hit with its own dart,
concede this too
must be divine?

Whence and why does Spirit
move energy so intensely
it reverberates into the material
realm?

Maybe the middle is maddening
to mock me
for the time
I put into making such massive
messes.

I have studied for this test.
All of the questions cannot be known
before-
I have learned
only enough to get by
and yet I try
anyway
I can
to pass-
to move on
to the next question.


Painting by Margaritis Georgios, 'Sappho praying to Aphrodite' before 1843 [Public domain].

Green copper pot

When a woman has
One child and makes
Zero investment makes no
sacrifice(s), contributes
None,
the yield on this bond
does not depreciate
into negatives-no
this product multiplied
Itself,
condensed and compensated itself
entirely with exposure to the elementary,
the obvious and raw goods,
thereby taking its own shape
by directed collisions
with steel objects,
only adding
character and patina
values molded with age.



Painting by Martin Dichtl, 'Still Life with copper pots' circa 1639 (Public domain), via Wikimedia Commons. 

S(h)ervant

I have served between eight and twenty-five 

thousand meals for my family,

I make coffee for them more than once per day,

equating to tens of thousands of perky hot pots.

I have given away my last dollar countless times,

I have shared the best bite, held my breath,

I have waited eternities all the while diluting myself,

watering patience back to life in the long afternoon heat. Thirsted for a moment.

I have dried tears, kissed scrapes, wiped milk, picked up,

and cheered up others, all while crawling on my hands and knees.

Does it count?

How many socks have I matched or single-handedly lost?

How many squares of cloth have I folded in nice ninety-degree angles?

How many circles have I Venn in?

How many bubbles have I burst?

How many sides have I taken

down only to expose what was hollow inside?

I have said the three words 'I love you'

and they have not all come back around 

on any one or two

ellipse-this is

proof of expansion or an open Universe, 

no place like Home.

My hands are callused, my feet are blistered and tender,

my eyes are faded and brittle, my skin gets heavier day by day,

and my hair glistens faintly like brass,

my cartilage collapses and all my salt sloughs off.

What is left to make of this? 

I have forgetten how freedom is one-sided and furthermore I have failed 

to recall my name when I am most lost, 

when I am too busy, when the last course

is done, when the words, 'my pleasure' meant motive,

when advantage was a taken

and Time 

was given.

What will be said about what is done?

I put this here, so someday they may say,

Her sentence had served her well. 

Painting by Jules Lefebvre, 'Servant' c. 1880 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sacrificial She

Demands are shrill
lilt a tone that cuts the fleshy ear
and worse as a pseudo nurse
I fear-in trembling-today
I am wilted even further away.
Lillies in the valley lean toward the rain,
the pain-
my dear-
I dare to note how sap drains slow,
like the frozen pulse-amber loves her prize,
and time flies while doing for others
sweet things softly, conjuring energy,
time in disguise as your own
with never ceasing chores
that occupy us so slyly
while we are looking down
oblivious
to others
looking up to us.
It is the way we listen
when Justice is served
evenhandedly.



Painting by By Hatherell, William, The Last Message (1918) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

It fits perfect (Haiku)

Sacrifice is not
a gift
        everyone can have
-Some wear it better.




Image of painting by Frederic Leighton [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.