At the time of healing
grief leaks out the corners,
spills down, becomes a river
like to wash you right away
Let it go, let it go –
this is something more ancient
than all of your lifetime,
more elemental
than every regret you have borne
Let it go – it wants to flow away,
wants to be a cleansing,
wants you to know
that you have never been a tool of sorrow –
all those stories
are washed clean with forgiveness
and you are free.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 30, 2020
Grief is a place to put stories to bed.
The slosh of waves of narrative,
conflicting stories, counter stories,
fall to stillness here. There is no answer,
no explaining away,
no alternative fact
that could gain traction here.
There is nothing to say.
Which is why, in grief,
there’s room for healing.
There’s room for the internal rages
to burn each other out.
After all that, grief resolves
to stillness.
And after a long silence,
a new thought.
©Wendy Mulhern
April 4, 2020
I went out shiny and hopeful,
I came back grubby and bruised,
I tripped over myself
so many times,
I got in my way —
such a familiar place
I had made grand narratives
for my triumph, had configured the words
but then found myself
once again
having to settle for silence
I know
there is another way,
I see the sweet humility
that overcomes the toughest challenge.
I feel the gratitude
for those quiet moments
where I see others
have found that peace
I can’t do this alone
but I’m not asked to,
nor am I charged to chronicle the story.
The steps are shown,
and all those dear ones
wait eager to receive me when I come.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 13, 2020
I closed my eyes
and the blue violet shadow
swept over me, through me,
then its particulate
began to dissipate
but the dark specs
still shaded everything
I can see the light —
right there, in memory,
and under everything —
it will rise,
it will become
what fills my consciousness and sight.
This I know well
though I can’t feel it now.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 9, 2020
The lady I stayed with
(long time ago)
had little notes to herself
on her dresser —
reminders to keep going,
to look again for the joy of life,
to hold herself
against the drift of sadness
This I took note of,
though I had no place to put it
and no way to even relate,
various chasms
(at that time)
rendering it impossible
for us to know each other
I might know more now,
be able and willing
to bridge the gap
into which fell
all referents of recognition,
and also the knowledge
which we didn’t mention but probably shared
that I was the same age
her dead son would have been.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 19, 2020
We watched the water change.
No sun to set, but gray and russet
tones darkened, something less than wind
ruffled the water, pleating the reflections,
bringing the lighter and the darker
lines across the surface
I don’t know where to put this,
you said. I don’t know where
to put anything,
not here, not anywhere.
I don’t know why I’m crying.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 3, 2020
It isn’t bad
to have to cry
in spite of how
the sun has spun
the grass heads into gold
and wind has gently ruffled ducks
and all in all
it was a fine day
These low points
come in sometimes
like nomad clouds
that mass and gather
and move through —
They will go as silently
as they came. Either today
or tomorrow — whether
bringing rain or not.
Either the sun will melt them
or bright laughter
will chase them off.
©Wendy Mulhern
December 27, 2019
We keep on circling home
like coins that spin and fall
and ring and ring
before they find their still point
We circle home
and our sudden sadnesses
bring us up short.
It may be a long fly
before we realize
we never left.
©Wendy Mulhern
December 22, 2019
You can’t fall
into the darkness
because your being
is made of light
No gravity affects it,
and even if it could fall
it would bring its essence with it,
lighting up the way and pushing darkness
ever farther off
You can’t fall into darkness
but we can release
any dark presumptions that have tried
with jagged scribbled lines
to draw a ragged image
on your form
We can let them go
and they’ll fall down,
way, way down
where they don’t even have a story,
far away
where they can trouble you no more.
©Wendy Mulhern
November 29, 2019
With just a couple wrong turns,
I found myself in sorrow,
but sensed that every story
to present itself as cause
must be a lie
I will not grasp at them —
they are not even straws —
their only function
would be to tie me up in knots
It’s better to just let the sorrow
be its color of wet charcoal,
of eyes clamped shut,
the brown green of sobs
providing variegation
Better to walk through long grass
and give some little willows
a second chance to grow
beside the pond,
better to breathe
and look up at the day
and let the darkness be unnamed
and let the light in.
©Wendy Mulhern
November 11, 2019