Our Tale

As the petals opened truly, sweetly, wide
and the fragrance swept our fears away,
as the song filled the rooms,
and we sighed into our own peaceable blooming,

we knew the flower’s artistry would curl up and brown,
the ground receiving bits and pieces,
the melody fertilizing earth for the next cycle of being.

And though we scatter to the four corners of our differences,
and all the little deaths have been tucked away,
the decrees final, the shunning done,
no resurrection likely in our time,
and though the barriers against what was and what is taunt
and accuse the past blooms of being not blooms, but instead a totality of falsehood,
and though the desire to either/or and to brutally conclude clamors,
the truth refuses obliterative absolutes.

It is not true that a flower was not real
because the flower is now dead,
and because that one flower will not be again.

Love and songs transmute our failings
and carry nourishment from all the booming blossoms
to the heart of being, feeding our lives
in spite of the prevailing death.

There is a both/and excruciating
whose requisite liberation sets the heart free.

The magnolia did bloom.
We did feast on a love impervious to our fated losses
(though we cannot reach ‘cross charred divides).
And in that is purpose no betrayal can destroy,
in that is a feltness stomping out futility’s lies,
in that is unity beyond graves,
and a song of cherishing that which insanity cannot devour.

Though mere formalities obliterated bonds,
the magnolia’s bloom will ultimately be our tale.

Photo by J. Ruth Kelly, 2019, All Rights Reserved

The Dance Remains

Oh, we sway as the day’s dance pauses in the hum of moon and sun
and some ancient knowing calls us to feast in the now,
in the everydayness of our unearthings.

We stretch and weep and shout, ousting stagnations,
blooming towards the sun as we turn for one more run.

And one more run becomes us
‘til the next sleeping awakens deeper, truer love being,
love showing truth in the face of the dark histories,
and in the aftermath of all that suggests futility
the dance remains,
but we are never the same.

J. Ruth Kelly, 2019, All Rights Reserved

 

Under Leaves…

Under leaves those lies and shows you thought I’d grow up to blow
on my knees perpetually for your testimony of delusions,
the paradise you claimed and named as real,
all those lies and shows, all their fangs and claws,
chains and saws dissolve around me.

Under leaves I am.

Under leaves these cells sing, sound and bellow something never meant to be silent or still.

Under leaves every fiber of me hums, shouts, and pounds a drum no one can claim.

Under leaves and on their scatterings my feet bare and drinking, gulping up the gobs, sigh.

Under leaves the chunks and corpses sink into dirt, all the lies gone.

Under leaves the bones rumble to life, a resurrection unrelenting.

Leave me here, I’ll dance, I’ll laugh at the scars and all the servitude scenarios.

Fly these arrows to the missionary madness, leave me to the sane and true.

Under leaves you could never be.

Under leaves I am.

Photo by J. Ruth Kelly, All Rights Reserved, 2018

Along The Shoreline

our pillars nest in tides suggesting endless plays of light
and long they sit in sight of eternity
resting hard against the sand – a story
posing fortitude and feasts along the shoreline,
our grief forgotten in the winds,
our hope perpetual, the slats on which we stand
and then the fall into sea,
our lines living
somewhere beyond the moon…

photo by j. ruth kelly, 2018, all rights reserved

All Of This

all the answers washed away
swirling in the undertow,
the work of tides beyond me
circling, engulfing my feet
fully covering every inch
and stitch (undone)
pulled for wily moon’s musing.
and all that remains, the earth
tides, and sighs,
new wrinkles and aches
the ancient quake rumbles
but shakes this form less wildly.

do I have my sea legs, finally?

or am I becoming the woman
white haired
at the shop on the seashore
open-air fabric market
ocean behind me, encroaching
as the bolt of fabric
mocks my bloomers?

or am I the husband hiding?
seemingly afraid?

or the woman standing
reeling there with feet wet,
the shock of life melt
disintegrating in the shoreline
of all that has been
and is still becoming the mystery?

does it matter?
we are, I am
all of this…

 

Photo by J. Ruth Kelly, 2018, All Rights Reserved

 

A Tree Tribute

my betters stand century, regarding every inch of me below them and i sigh…
the relief of their preeminence, their everything better than me, always being
faithful, seeing without accusation, knowing without words, rendering without movement
except for the sway sighs occasional, a hymn of ages linking cords of light and dirt
the above and below granting us all the grace to keep going…
i stand in awe of such company, and the sweetest one, boldly human,
lingering long enough to look up, partake and share.

 

Photo by S. Isaac Kellogg, 2018, All Rights Reserved