Alone on the top I cling to the ground
not wanting to fall
my roots have been found

The colors they swirl around me
comforting but new
All I needed was to open my eyes to see

So though I look alone and naked fresh from an emotional shower
It is simply that I am
finally in a place of empower.

Renewal

When the trees have lost all color,
their starkness and stillness
appear irreversible.

My eyes are dulled by
days and days of gray.
No relief for the searching heart.

Then, suddenly, the sky itself blooms
with all the radiance
the earth has lost.

Impossible color upon color,
a purple background
outlining dark silhouettes.

God’s mercy floods the barrenness,
extending hope to every branch
and heart for life renewed.

http://thisfarbyfaith.blogspot.com/2007/10/beauty-of-broken-things.html

http://vaughnblog.blogspot.com/2007/10/poetry-party-6.html

Deb

Beauty of brokenness

Every day I see you.
Eight hours every day I work with you.
But do I really?

See you?
Help you?

Look beyond your fractured, bruised limbs,
Look deeper than your damaged gray matter.

To your soul within,
Untouched by trauma.

To see the spark of recognition,
The scowl of determination,
The tears of frustration,
The silent wails of loss and grief,
The internal nod of understanding.

Healing comes slowly,
Incompletely,
Imperceptably.

You will be the same
But forever different.

There is beauty in the faith, courage and determination that arise from you brokeness.
Most of all, I see it in your loved ones that are with you on the journey.

Can I honor this pain?
Can I dare call it sacred,
and believe that You are
right in the midst of it?
Are You inviting me to call it holy
and receive it with compassion?
to know this pain, like all other pain,
is on the cross
because of Your unending love for all?
Does redemption, healing
come by entering the pain
rather than asking
that it be removed from me?

Old men lie adrift in their beds,
famous battles of World War II
flickering on the screen, a strident voice
encouraging the valiant on—all background
to vacant eyes it once entranced.

Old women loll in chairs by the door.
One cries out, “I don’t live here. Take me home.”
Another smiles, holds out her doll.
One with a canny grin
points to a photo on her dresser.
“I snapped that handsome boy up in a flash,”
then sobs because, “I don’t know where he’s gone!”
“Ten years dead,” her sister says.

Old women want their mamas,
their babies and their men.
Old men long for glory,
their courage, and the power
that made them proud
a long time ago.

The sun descends below the land,
then reemerges,
hanging there, a rim of light,
suspended, momentarily
before it’s sucked down by the sky,
a gentle death to day, its colors gone.