God Is A Ghost On Wrens' Nest RoadA Poem by Linda Marie Van Tassell
Stanzas spill from my eyes and trail the moon for the loves ones whose life has ebbed away.
Love, let me lend you my ancestral wing
across the distance which keeps us apart
to bestow such comfort as it may bring
for the sorrows that inundate your heart.
Stanzas spill from my eyes and trail the moon
for the loved ones whose life has ebbed away,
whose love-light flickered and faded too soon
in the mid of night where they both once lay.
I cannot pretend to perceive your pain,
what it must be like to lose wife and child;
but I know the tears that patter like rain
whose ocean runs deep when once beguiled.
Sadness is a wall between life and death
in the arch of your back, along your spine;
and the sigh and silence between each breath
is a pulse of promise for all divine.
Love, my heart aches as any heart would do.
The blood between us is no longer free.
Whatever you suffer, I suffer too;
and my tears are your tears inside of me.
Though I have lost sight of your kindred face,
I feel the beat of your beat in my heart.
I wish for you solace, mercy, and grace
and all the comfort my words can impart.
The homestead is hollow, silent and still,
as the moon hovers in her graceful turn,
shining brightly on backs of house and hill
in honor of those who will not return.
My thoughts embark on a current of tears.
On a river of sleep, I gaze the shore
where Tracey and Jake give praise to the years
and to the memories you built before.
Your love has brightened their pathway to peace
and slippered their souls in heaven’s haiku
and dressed them in glimmers of sweet release
like sunlight distils the evening dew.
The wings of morning spin circles of light.
Memories of loved ones dwell in the air.
The loss you’ve suffered I cannot recite,
and it is greater than one soul must bear.
My thoughts are gliding through evergreen bones,
encircling sky with wings of the heart,
bursting through vineyards and layers of stones
across the distance which keeps us apart.
© 2010 Linda Marie Van Tassell
Linda Marie Van Tassell
AboutPoetry is the sister of Sorrow. Every man that suffers and weeps is a poet; every tear is a verse, and every heart a poem. When the Divine Artist would produce a poem, He plants a germ of it in a hum.. more..
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