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 Wings of The Dawn – In Memoriam Edward J. Goldgehn

Psalm 139
Lord, You have searched me and known me.
You know when I sit down and when I rise up;
You understand my thought from afar.
You scrutinize my path and my lying down,
And are intimately acquainted with all my ways.
Even before there is a word on my tongue,
Behold, O Lord, You know it all.
You have enclosed me behind and before,
And laid Your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;
It is too high, I cannot attain to it.
Where can I go from Your Spirit?
Or where can I flee from Your presence?
If I ascend to heaven, You are there;
If I make my bed in Sheol, behold, You are there.
If I take the wings of the dawn,
If I dwell in the remotest part of the sea,
10 Even there Your hand will lead me,
And Your right hand will lay hold of me.
11 If I say, “Surely the darkness will overwhelm me,
And the light around me will be night,”
12 Even the darkness is not dark to You,
And the night is as bright as the day.
Darkness and light are alike to You.
13 For You formed my inward parts;
You wove me in my mother’s womb.
14 I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Wonderful are Your works,
And my soul knows it very well.
15 My frame was not hidden from You,
When I was made in secret,
And skillfully wrought in the depths of the earth;
16 Your eyes have seen my unformed substance;
And in Your book were all written
The days that were ordained for me,
When as yet there was not one of them.
17 How precious also are Your thoughts to me, O God!

How vast is the sum of them!
18 If I should count them, they would outnumber the sand.
When I awake, I am still with You.

Ed Goldgehn’s absence from the world of his beloved wife, Deanna, family and friends is felt on what can only be described as cataclysmic levels. The shock continues to etch reminders in our hearts and minds of how immeasurably precious our time is here on our beautiful earth, in our fleeting lives.
Ed’s spirit remains. His imprint alive.
I, for one, am grateful for the gifts his uniqueness wrought, spilling into my own world in ways only Ed could do. He will always be not only the brainy, eyebrow-arched zinger of a man who loved my dearest friend in his distinct and empowering way, but he will also ever remain in my esteem, as a fellow member of the notorious tribe, The Scorpio.
Ed opened many doors and fostered innumerable possibilities with his creative spirit and brilliance, planting seeds of success.
He is desperately missed.

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Trails Lead…

maybe these trails lead
somewhere deep within love’s soul
where a lil girl leaps
and heart plays freely
skipping along her power
and the trees sing sight
faeries’ smiles light paths
as eternal youth blossoms
from within time’s keep
and a woman’s face
turns to decades trailing life
her roots finding gold
for in these woods, we’re never old

j. ruth kelly, 2017, all rights reserved

 

Our Naji

Words fail today for many reasons but mostly because our beloved Naji passed after 19 years on this planet. He has anchored and nourished our family in as much time. And we are grateful. It has been particularly challenging since he decided to sprint towards the finish line as soon as I left town. He knew. This is what the dying do. They wait until you can’t cling another second because you’re otherwise preoccupied. And they leave. We had to assist his passing and it was attended beautifully by Naji’s beloved Marion, eldest of our family. She held him and held herself together while he quietly and peacefully slept his last.

Naji is felt more powerfully today than I’ve felt him in a couple of years. He’s coming through as happy, relieved, grateful. He will forever anchor us as we hold to all that he gave.

g'nite
purring rest
sweetness
Naji, gentle soul…
Goodbye…
Sweet memories

 

A Harvest Calls

When the winter stole my song, all the lovely bits of me blew away
and the night chained the dirt of my soul to the earth,
a forest of dead leaves and berries cloaked my blood.
So I wailed into the mire, a sort of siren sob for ice and snow, but no.
The season remained anchored to an epoch, bored by all my ire
and, instead of relenting, carved notches in my throat,
binding my voice to memories of long ago, whispering secrets stored in lifetimes past.
And so I listened.
And the notches cut deep, freeing waters dank and tired.
They ran in rivulets down my neck and into the valley hardened by hope’s abortions,
flooded all the flotsam jamming up my flow and washed old corpses out to sea.
And I listened more
as the ice and snow melted down into my core, warmed by embers unseen.
Then a new song gripped the heart of every screenplay refusing tRuth,
wringing out the lies, peeling back the armor ancient,
fucking the mindlessness out of every habitual, knee-jerk bullshit
reactionary presentation.
Stripped, disintegrating but the truest hum emanating.
Out past the dirt and mire, through the cracks in my grave…
a harvest calls,
a song is freed,
and these feet remember the dance.

j. ruth kelly, 2017, all rights reserved