'tears' timothy r g, 6/02/208
Tears, matter not why they come or go, fill our eyes but do not come out, or flow like a river, seeming to not ever dry, but still they stop. Like laughter, we either let them come or we are stuffed till they become refuse, unused, unappreciated, giving us sympathy in the place of empathy for others and ourselves. Tears, have been seen by some mystics, from varying Traditions, as second, or more, baptisms, cleansings, enlightenments. If we pretend to not have them, or presume to not let them flow, or, as bad, let them control our seeing by not seeing through them, we will find that we're likely not able to laugh alone or with others. The gift of tears, is that, if we dare let them teach us to walk after we've been taught to crawl.
'masks worn by all' timothy r g, 2/5/2008 (for friend and reposed brother)
masks, worn by all,
some, few, when they remove theirs - it is still the same, trueness,
guilessness, beauty whispers
tears are a chrism for the unbaptized,
then she moves closer and speaks,
intuitional presence,
'we all come through the flood,
birthed into this space by baptismal
waters, the womb our first nest,
gives way to us all our next one.'
these are what i like to call,
as i do to my children,
'happy tears.'
Tears, matter not why they come or go, fill our eyes but do not come out, or flow like a river, seeming to not ever dry, but still they stop. Like laughter, we either let them come or we are stuffed till they become refuse, unused, unappreciated, giving us sympathy in the place of empathy for others and ourselves. Tears, have been seen by some mystics, from varying Traditions, as second, or more, baptisms, cleansings, enlightenments. If we pretend to not have them, or presume to not let them flow, or, as bad, let them control our seeing by not seeing through them, we will find that we're likely not able to laugh alone or with others. The gift of tears, is that, if we dare let them teach us to walk after we've been taught to crawl.
'masks worn by all' timothy r g, 2/5/2008 (for friend and reposed brother)
masks, worn by all,
some, few, when they remove theirs - it is still the same, trueness,
guilessness, beauty whispers
tears are a chrism for the unbaptized,
then she moves closer and speaks,
intuitional presence,
'we all come through the flood,
birthed into this space by baptismal
waters, the womb our first nest,
gives way to us all our next one.'
these are what i like to call,
as i do to my children,
'happy tears.'
she sat there,
not knowing why her daddy had to go;
he was drunk, again
he was terminal, no use of going to AA, dead soon
too young to know,
only, 'why?'
there he reclines asleep, blessed repose, I pray.
sitting there again,
grandpa, then another grandpa;
sadness is now better understood;
someone else has her daddy's ashes,
both grandpas' energies flying with her daddy
old enough now to know,
only, 'why?'
sleep doesn't easily come to the eyes of a, 'why?'
'tell her that god loves her,' one, two, three insist to me,
'I love her,' I raise my angry voice of protection,
- Job's well intended comforters;
(once hurt is known we have no need to give words, reasons, excuses)
sixteen year old lovelies weep like four year olds,
with anger wed to the bawling.
way too many, any too many
stolen from us, energy still someplace,
but we want to hug them, 'please once more,'
today I'll tell her, she thinks, 'grandma, I love you oh so much.'
- my beloved friend is awakened to, 'she's gone,'
doesn't matter that we've not talked today,
I hear her sobbing, wishing that I could do more than give a band-aid.
'why?
I don't know any better than Mary's Son,
he cried out, 'my god, my god, why have you left me by myself?'
his mother cried out, pulling her hair, beating her chest, 'why my son?'
black-eyed, round faced, lovely baby,
black-haired, when she chooses, maybe her voice is more lovely than she
I taste the salt in my tears caught at the corner of my mouth.
I bet that her tears are not merely salty either.