love

She is a soldier,
a warrior in the quiet moments,
fighting battles not of her choosing,
but of necessity,
holding the weight of the world
on her shoulders,
so that we, her daughters,
might walk a little lighter.

A mother and a father,
she wears both roles with quiet grace,
never asking for applause,
never seeking praise,
she simply does.

She is the artist,
painting our lives with love,
with lessons learned through fire
and scars borne with pride,
forging the strength of ten
in the heart of one.

Epiphanies on Woman as Divine Love Incarnate
by Hildegard of Bingen

Mary, Queen of Bucks, with beauty sharp as fate,
A painted smile, a poisoned crown, she’d wait.
From velvet lies to whispered tongues of power,
Her hand would grasp, and kingdoms would devour.

A tempest in a lace-edged gown, so sweet,
She danced upon the backs of men’s defeat.
Her lover’s eyes—how they bent to her whim,
Yet in her mirror, shadows grew so grim.

Upon the bridge where swords met steel and fate,
In Finea’s mist, where river waters weep,
There stood a man, a prince in name and soul,
Myles O’Reilly, Slasher of the foe.

Descended from the kings of old Breifne,
A chieftain’s blood ran strong within his veins,
With Ireland’s pride aflame within his heart,
He dared to stand, though England pressed him low.

They called him but a man, yet giants fell,
The Scottish beast cut down with but one stroke.
His blade, a flash of vengeance in the dusk,
An iron whisper sung in rebel hands.

I dreamt of him beneath the silver moon,
his porcelain face cracked deep with golden light.
He looked at me with sorrow-laden eyes,
and I, entranced, returned his mournful gaze.

Between us stretched a silence, vast and cold,
yet in the hush, I knew he called to me.
He raised a fragile hand, so pale, so still.
I reached to meet him, fingertips outstretched.

In dreams, I see your little face once more,
Bright brown eyes alive with trusting light.
Your soft mews echo, a tender, fleeting balm,
And your purr lulls my heart into warmth again.

But dreams fracture; shadows flood the peace,
A cold December night claws at my mind.
A cry for help, your frail frame in my arms,
Breath hitching, blood stealing what should be yours.
One final gasp, and your body stills,
A patchwork coat soaked in my falling tears.

‘Tis the day to care for each other and to join hands
Friendship matters, love matters
Flowers matter too, brothers and sisters
Please do not be too mad
Because the sky is not blue
Let’s enjoy the morning dew
Please do not be too sad
Let’s enjoy the cold sunny weather
There’s snow here and there, but at the corner
Is spring with fresh air and a bundle of flowers

Believe it or not
The Parson is right
We shall return with zeroes
Many zeroes.  Let’s be Heroes
For and to the world. Let’s not be selfish
Because we shall return with zilch
With nada, mit nichts, perhaps with empty zeroes
Which mean nothing. Let’s pause
To think. Let’s be wise and humble
Love is essential. When the trees tremble
And fall; when the ground shakes and burns

Throughout the coldest days of the mighty winter
Think of a sweet spring and dream of a mild summer
During the harshest hours of the wintry night
Think of flowers and dream of a pleasant sunlight.

Season comes, remains a bit and then flees
Life goes through a circular event like the bees
Like the moonbeams dancing around Mother Earth
In order to charm, embrace and kiss her to death.