The sight of Him 

was salt in open wounds

but she held His gaze 

as fixedly and  tenderly

as when she had laid His 

infant body to her breast.

His pain almost 

drowned her in its depths

and when its darkness 

would have pulled her in,

her fingers bit into 

the skin of John's arm

that she might pull herself

upright again.

His breath strangled

in His throat and she choked.

His wounds wept red tears 

and her staring eyes streamed.

He spoke to her just once, then pulled

against the nails.  Crying out, 

He exhaled and sagged upon the wood.

She felt Him plunge into her heart,

sharp as the sword 

old Simeon had promised.

Holding Him at last, 

His head cradled in her arms,

she watched John gently pull away

the hideous crown.  Bending over her son,

she touched the places where the thorns had pierced Him.  Her many kisses could not warm His skin and though

 she tried to think of Him as He had been, 

memory quailed before the sleeping face

that death had closed to her.

She who had borne Him without pain, 

ravaged by this second birthing,

in her abject loneliness became 

mother of us all, 

mother of our many sorrows,

none, ah none, like hers.

smb

This morning

the blind man stands

on the corner

his shirt October blue

his broom handles

butter yellow.  Colors

he has never seen or long

forgotten make me wonder

to what colors I am blind,

I've often

passed that corner

not expecting 

insight from a sightless man,

who, unknowing, gives direction,

never knowing that he can.

I wonder if there may be others

looking on infirmities of mine,

question their own mysteries

one more time.

If  so, then In those moments

we give gifts beyond our giving,

silver birds from empty rooms,

that wheel unseen above us

while we stand, like the blind man,

selling our brooms.

smb

SOME PEOPLE GO FROM PLACE TO PLACE

TASK TO TASK, FACE TO FACE,

AND GATHER ENERGY.  I DON'T.

I HAVE TO STOP OFTEN

AND LOOK INTENTLY

AT NOTHING IN PARTICULAR

AND REALLY SEE IT.

I  WALK THE STRETCHES

OF AN INNER BEACH

KICKING UP THOUGHTS 

 LIKE GRAINS OF SAND,

LOST IN PRAYER,

 IN MEMORIES

OF PEOPLE AND PLACES

 I HAVE LOVED, 

WANDERING MYSTERIES,

MOUTHING 

SNATCHES OF POETRY

AND DREAMING.

UNDERSTAND, LOVE,

THE TINNITUS OF MY DAYS, 

FOLLOWS ME EVERYWHERE.

WHEN IT DEAFENS ME I GO

INTO THE QUIET,

UNABLE TO RESIST 

THE SILENT MUSIC 

PLAYING 

THERE.

smb