Poem: The Silent Places

17_resize.JPG

The Silent Places

You live in the silent places,
the places long hidden,
buried in fear of judgment,
places of punishment in the midst of struggle,
of anger written in stone,
Gods of hate.

You live in the silent places,
you bring me the courage I never learned.
Always before I was wounded each time I stepped forward into battle,
each step forward met with wounds and wrath,
never any satisfaction unless there was blood on the floor.
But you met wound with balm,
a safe place to heal.

I had almost forgotten safety.
Trust in it came slow.
Tentative.
a lurking of disbelief built over time and missteps
and the anger written in stone,
blind and understanding only belief,
losing faith in the seasons’ power to change and grow.
Stone belief. Raised and ready to kill
in the pretense of love.

You live in the silent places.
All the places I used to hide,
certain if I stayed still enough,
no one would notice.
I would be safe.

Now you are there with me.
Your love and patience a product of Paul’s truth,
and strong as God and his panoply of flawed saints,
you hold me up, and I have learned to speak
no less aware of my flaws and failures,
but no longer afraid of them.

About this poem

A love poem (duh).

“Paul’s truth” refers to 1st Corinthians 13:4-8a, the “love chapter” in the Bible, and Galatians 5:22-23. The very definition of love.

Tom

Poem: The Pain of Winter

8_resize

The Pain of Winter

Seven degrees and the quarry lake is frozen.
The snow has become hard
and there are no tracks from the animals of the night.

The few remaining plants are mere stalks, dry and brittle,
dark counterpoints to the snow.

Behind you, down below, is warmth.
the woman you love is there, nestled
in the house you share.

You will go back soon enough,
but for now you need to be here,
where the cold seeps into your skin.

You need to feel the bitter wind,
the hurt of it. You need
the reminder

of life without place or love.  You vow
to never forget the pain of those years,
for in remembering your appreciation is that much greater.

Far up the quarry, you hear a lone coyote.
Its yips echo off the stone walls.
He will not be alone, you think;

neither of us was made for aloneness.
Not for long.  Even an introvert like you,
a man comfortable in empty spaces,

needs.

You stand for a time. You can feel the temperature fall.
You turn and walk down the icy path, back home,
back to her,

the pain of winter raw in your bones,
rejoicing that it is a temporary thing, and below,
spring awaits.

About this poem

I am the introvert’s introvert, comfortable in silence and empty spaces. But even I know I am better with someone. And best with the right someone.

This is a love poem to that right someone, the woman I love and who loves me.

Tom

Poem: Second Summer

IMG_2095.JPG

Second Summer

Summer light.
A road.
A journey, in the lush summer,
languid, slow and heated.

Along the road, a river runs.
Water dances as you dangle your feet
of the edge of ancient rocks.

Her voice is music,
part of the summer lushness,
a surprise, each day she loves you

here in the summer of your life,
a second season, unexpected as age,
and welcome beyond rationality.

About this poem

This past weekend was one of those times when plan after plan blew up. Two groups of friends that we expected for the weekend, didn’t make it for various reasons. An art show I had planned to show in got rained out.

But in the end, we had a lovely weekend. Time together, just the two of us, is precious, and when it is as unexpected as the love itself, there is a special joy in it.

It has taken me a long time to embrace joy again. I can’t tell you how much it means to me now. But I try.

Tom

Poem: What Matter, Rain

21_resize

What Matter, Rain? 

It is raining outside.
But you are in,
gently in love.

The light is dim and colorless,
but around her, a light glows
from within.

Outside, everything glistens, wet and cold
The cat comes in, water droplets on her whiskers.
But you are dry and warm curled up next to her.

This is love.
It does not make life perfect,
only, always, better.

It is raining outside.

About this poem

A love poem to start my Saturday.

I had an outside art show planned for today. The rain and wind canceled it out. All my art, tents and tables are sitting in the back of my old Isuzu Trooper, where they will stay till the rain stops. No selling art for me today.

But I have more time with my bride and it will be a slow, together kind of day.

Things work out. They work out better with her in my life.

Tom

Poem: Nothing Else Matters

wilburton

Nothing Else Matters

Push the world aside.
Find a place for just you, and I,
a place where we can talk, one to the other,
a place of listening for breath and soul
and the electricity of touch, one hand on the other.

Set aside the noise. Push aside the crowd.
There is you, and I. Nothing else matters
save the sound of two souls slowing down
and rediscovering each other again,
again, and always
again.

About this poem

Too often we say certain things matter most, but act as if they don’t.

A love poem. The woman I love has been away a couple of days and returns this afternoon.

A poem of spirit. For too often life is too busy and too noisy for us to find God in the mix.

You choose. Or don’t. It’s OK for things to have more than one meaning.

Tom

PS – The picture was taken at the Wiburton Inn in Manchester, VT.