SuziCate's Musings

Archive for April, 2011

When She Speaks

The farmhand chatters

about plowing and planting

while her brittle bones speak

of low pressure and impending rain

Silently, she listens to chaos

of words, echoes, chanting

Her heart, left lonely, aches

with memories of love, loss, and pain


When she speaks,

her words are few but precise,

though she leaves nothing unsaid

She speaks,

with certainty words will suffice

and sustain after she is dead


At night she rocks and sings

to her children long since grown

She stares into the night,

wishing she could go back in years

Husband of yesteryear promises

not much longer will she be alone

Speechless, she patiently waits,

hope soothing away her tears


When she speaks,

her words are few but precise,

though she leaves nothing unsaid

She speaks,

with certainty words will suffice

and sustain after she is dead

Love In Vain

photo credit Wikipedia

Shadows transform into stars

as licking flames

burnish us into the night

Gentle rains wash the patina

from our restless souls

With the rising sun

we become morning’s glory

We blanket the dawn with rainbows

catching dew in the trumpet of life

and opening to all heaven offers

until at last we must curl our lips

and twist our petals of protection

around our sensitive hearts

We intend to do it over and over

till our very nature plucks us

from the trellis of triumph

Tornado Warning


Wind grumbles and roars

Lights flashes through the trees

Clouds explode through the sky

Earth points her trembling finger

She taps her foot and waves her arms

and shouts “Do you hear me?”

We cringe in shame

as vibrations rise through our bones

The high pitch whistle tweaks our ears

Our eyes squint from the overwhelming light

We jump in fear at every boom

and run for cover from her tirade

Like a mother functioning on her one last nerve,

She collapses as it hits her all at once

She calms, relents, and offers a forgiving hug

And there is nothing left but her tears

as she tucks us into a heavenly slumber

Sacred Moments

The wink of the clouds
as the sun emerges over the mountain tops
and the smile of the valley below
take my breath away.
Memory inks my essence
like a tattoo across the soul.
I taste life in the salt of the sea,
and I feel the power as I ride the current.
I am not only the wind of all that will be,
but I am the rain of all that has been.
As my breath enters and leaves,
I know that I am of this moment.
Hearing my name whispered in the rustle
of trees or gurgle of a stream
makes me aware that my God
is not in a box…He speaks to me
and to you if you listen for His call.

No Words


There are no words to attach

to pain that scrapes you from the inside out,

and places what you’ve trusted in doubt.

There are no words to describe

when you don’t know how you feel,

and little in this world seems real.

There are no words to ease

the bumps along your road,

or the heaviness of your load.

There are no words to clarify

the things we can not understand,

so please just offer me your hand.

And when there are no words,

the gift of silent support can be best

while the weak and weary rest.

Final Days

Misty eyed and lumps in our throats,

we trudge along with our hearts in our stomachs.

Every ring of the phone stops us in our tracks,

afraid to answer, afraid not to, not wanting to know.

We remember. We laugh. We cry.

We know we all must die.

We either think too much or our minds are blank

as seconds turn to minutes and drift into hours.

Hour by hour the day finally ends,

and we are thankful it wasn’t today.

We toss. We turn. We weep.

We do what we can to sleep.

Days don’t erase the pain,

nor does pain numb the soul.

We do what we must. We carry on.

With or without us, time keeps ticking.

We live. We love. We feel.

This nightmare is all too real.

We will continue to laugh and cry,

and all in between until we die.

The Floor

Cancer ravages your body

like pounding rain,

and I am the umbrella

that fails to open.

So, I scrub my kitchen floor.

Brush bristles dig with my every swipe.

Ammonia burns my nostrils

and stings my eyes.

I push deeper and harder

trying to scrub away the cancer.

Fingers red and raw among the suds,

and still dirt is embedded in cracks,

my floor does not shine.

Everyone knows I am a sorry excuse

for a floor scrubber.


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