Black Lives Matter

crocosmia

Black lives matter.
They matter to every
brilliant, bright-eyed,
brown-skinned child
and to the world they grace,
for their potential for joy,
for discovery, for fervent love

Black lives matter
to every mother, father, brother,
niece — all of the blood connections,
all the humanity,
all the strength developed
through undeserved oppression,
all the courage to stand together
against colossal odds

And Black lives matter
to the poverty of my whiteness,
to the cruelty of a system
which has given me the harsh role
of oppressor

Black lives matter
and if we Whites can free ourselves
from our complicity,
we, too, will taste
some of the sweetness
we’ve been parched for, all these years

We will learn kindness
in ways we’ve never known,
for kindness only thrives
where it can be unbridled,
unmeasured, unwithheld,
where it flows freely
to wherever there’s a need,

To wherever there’s a bright child
who needs the world to know
her Black life matters,
(and Barbie, not a model for anything,
is just hard plastic)
One Black life can start to set us free.
Black lives matter to me.

©Wendy Mulhern
July 8, 2016

Just a Story

poplar

It’s just a story.
It’s just a story,
and these deep heavings
of vicarious grief
need not possess me
any longer than I choose

It’s a story, and its aftermath
was just a dream, just a dream
accompanied by torments
of the almost sleeper by my side

It all got slept away,
it all got side-stepped
in my midnight insistence
on immunity

So why, in the shadow
of this overcast afternoon,
do I feel the mounting, behind my eyes,
of what would be tears
if they felt sure they had a cause?

Every story must need
to be heard, be felt,
sweep up a community to circle it,
to deliver it down
to where all is resolved
in the peace-deep ever stirring sea.

©Wendy Mulhern
May 21, 2016

Retrospective

gateway

What forms us, what
makes us what we are,
what brings us to this place,
this state of being?

(Certainly it’s early
to wax retrospective,
with this, the greatest work
of our lives, before us)

(Clearly we have seen,
the story of our past is
the product of our present lens,
it shifts with each tilt of the head,
it doesn’t show us anything)

And yet, there is a fullness
in this sunny afternoon
flooded with memories,
there is a fondness
for what we have been,
however foolish

There is hope that all will yet bear fruit,
and all will be forgiven,
there is time
to let our lives unfold.

©Wendy Mulhern
May 7, 2016

Silence

iris 2

 

And maybe there are times
when there isn’t anything
to be said,
but it’s important to be there,
to share a silence,
to share the weight of presence,
to sit with someone
as they descend through a process
you may or may not understand

And sometimes you might detect
that you have walked a parallel path,
and there might still be
nothing to say about it.
You, too, might benefit
from the ballast of silence.

©Wendy Mulhern
April 20, 2016

Outlook

Vineyard Window

Some days are better than others,
some parts of days
better than other parts.
Some have highs and lows,
others blips of cogency
with intermittent gaps,
places where things seem
reasonable enough
but in retrospect
it is astounding
what I missed,
what I allowed.

There is no chart for this, however,
no beeping graph to mark the ups and downs —
it is subjective as the very moment
that frames my outlook —
it can change in an instant.

©Wendy Mulhern
February 4, 2016

Covered

rain reflection

There is a love deep enough
to reach your very lowest point,
to wrap you up and hold you
tender, safe

There is a love that answers
generations of woe,
long legacies of dashed hopes,
intransigent injustice

There is a love for which
the wildest writhings
of your struggling heart
are no problem

You don’t have to be
small and polite
to qualify for Love’s covering —
don’t have to assume
you only get a small blanket

There is a love that can heal
all of your memories,
all of your doubts
all of your fears for the future

Here is love for you:
whatever you need,
you are covered.

©Wendy Mulhern
December 26, 2015

The Function of Tears

function of tears

Here at the very bottom
I begin to detect
the function of tears —
They are our call for reconnection,
to feel again the waves
that flow through our lives,
to be borne up, to be carried,
to let go of trying to know anything,
wash away our failed attempts
to make things work,
get us to the place where all our heaving ends
and we can feel
the still and gentle Allness
embrace us once again.

©Wendy Mulhern
October 7, 2015

Keening

farm in fog2

There is a place for the low wolf howl,
a place for the long keening,
a place for the cry that launches itself
out of tears, after facades have fallen

It can go on as long as it has to —
no need to question the purpose
or the meaning
or if it (really now!) must be enough already

I may be howling for myself
or for the world
or for everything I put up with
but shouldn’t have,
for all the stands I didn’t take

It is a part of me I didn’t know —
Ancient, loud, flinging its sound out
Sharp enough to echo through the trees.
It frees me, at least a little,
from domestication,
from constrictions on what I’m allowed to be

It can continue as long as it needs to.
Afterwards, the horse comes out of the woods,
the bright flashing fish appear from nowhere.
I may do lucid dreaming
but this — how my creator holds me —
This is more.

©Wendy Mulhern
April 16, 2015

photo by Susanne Weiss

Current Events

trees at mill creek1

I tear myself away from the pictures
so many times a day,
sickening and sad,
grief hanging with the edge of rain
on my windshield,
on the ledge behind my eyes —
Where can we turn now,
How did we drift so close to checkmate?

I look for solace in the colors —
winter reds of shrubs against storm gray,
dark trees against the sky,
I look for comfort
in the words of friends

These send me where I need to go,
down to the depths of my roots
to find the place where life
is ever coiling
to rise in its own strength,
to claim its truth.

©Wendy Mulhern
December 10, 2014

Ribbons

ribbons

I tried to mend the space
my knife eyes had slashed to ribbons
in their tense sweeping arcs
across the room
I soaked it in the russet soup
that floats behind closed eyes,
gave it permission to dissolve
and then re-form

The traffic ribbon cut,
in torturous red
through my psyche,
slow, intractable. I couldn’t
leave it

I tied a bow around my hopes and plans
and left them, only too aware
that any conscious effort on my part
to bring them to fruition
would have to fail.
I left them to be met
by some life force
larger and more precise
than my fumbling hands.

©Wendy Mulhern
November 21, 2014