I’m on holidays in the middle of nowhere.
I have books.
I have my computer.
I have a heart that wishes for silence and the soft smiles of love.
I will sip some tea and close my eyes.
Tag: Poetry
And I will quietly be
as I am.
Yes, I will quietly be.
Categories
The Echos of Love
Categories
Quiet on a Hill
I close my eyes, my foot on a chair.
Pots clang. Time flashes,
bright and loud.
Could there be just me and the stars?
Me and my hands on dry earth?
My heart glows at the thought.
And I run, and I run from the noise.
And I run and hold tight to the sweet,
sweet moments of quiet on a hill.
Exhaustion is the arrow to peace.
Peace is the home that waits for me
always.
Categories
She Remembers
How my soul asks to be held.
How she breathes
the cotton thoughts of yesterday
through the trees
as she remembers.
Categories
Golden Light
She holds my hand and walks me home
while rabid dogs do lie,
she takes each ache, and wraps them dear
though fear, old foe, won’t die.
Her seeds of goodness, daily, sprout
she guides my heart by day,
the softest wind, she whispers me,
her sun the warmest ray.
And with this peace, I lay her tune
I sing her through the night,
oh, softness, take, me home again,
sweet angel, golden light.
***
When I believed in angels, a golden one would shine.
And I would see her face in the dark of my mind, always smiling, always soft and sweet and dear.
And she would hold me through this life, the golden one, when I was broken, lost or bruised.
I wish I still believed in angels.
I wish I still believed.
Categories
Stop. Imagine.
Stop.
Imagine.
There is a human here and a human there.
Both are different, vastly so.
Human number one feels okay being bombarded with a box full of emails. He tackles them, one by one, and then he continues on to more busy things. He flies to the top of the work chain. He never rests. Not even when he’s sick. Successful. They say.
(Nobody can figure out why success looks like that.)
Human number two feels overwhelmed by emails and noise, so instead he chooses to paint. Beside the trees. He struggles with focus, but he needs to struggle with focus, because if he focused he’d lose his flow. His authentic flow. The thing within him that changes the lives of others in profoundly beautiful ways.
(Nobody can understand him. Nobody can figure out why he’s broken like that.)
He feels ashamed. He has a choice. He takes medication so he can be more like the first guy. Everybody breathes a sigh of relief.
He slowly dies inside.
And so does everyone around him because
where are all the beautiful things?
Imagine.
Stop.
All toxic cultures die.
Everybody is happy, being the person they were always meant to be.
Everybody.
The end.
Categories
The River and The Stone
The river is always changed
after the stone
has pierced her
still waters.
Categories
The Soft Things
The quiet is here and so am I.
I will life to slow down, I ache for it; I am not made for speed.
I am made for the whisper of the trees, for the silver trail of snails on a rainy path.
I am with this world, but I am captured by it, not a citizen free; can we ever be free, when we have each other to hold? The answer is no, if the heart runs as deep as this.
No, built from sacrifice and deep, deep love.
But how I long to live the day exactly as I choose.
I would live beside the river.
I would walk and feel the breeze.
I would have my family, only.
And I would draw, and sing
and give my heart to the soft things.
Do not look at my face
and tell me
I am beautiful.
Do not look at my skin
and see your hands
upon my life.
Look at me.
Look at me.
I am here.
I have always
always
been here.
brooke-cutler.com 