Poetry

by Kay Posselt

 

LOSS - A Grain of Sand

A grain of sand

slipped into my shell,

grated my nerves raw,

made me know whatís foreign

might not be nice.

It is not nice

to try so hard,

to put everything on the line,

to push as hard as I can

without so much as a nod.

A cold slap would feel better.

Divorce is hard

and gritty and disturbing.

It gets under my skin, all right,

and festers.

I donít know how to make it better,

how to soothe the hurt,

or what exactly to do next,

except for one thing.

If Iím going to go it alone,

Iíll set the course,

even when it feels like

Iím meandering in a desert.

Iíll choose the path,

the time of day,

the way I see things.

Iíll be wary.

Iíll be bold.

Iíll really step out.

And, when I need to, Iíll retreat.

Iíll let that pesky grain of sand

drive me to places Iíve never been

because I didnít have the time,

I didnít have the chance.

Now I do.

Everything I do for me

layers the grit with balm.

Each act of love

builds up my new self.

A day at a time,

one generous act of self-regard,

Then another, and slowly,

even unexpectedly,

where there was grit and dirt,

something new and beautiful

outshines it all.

 

 

THE PRESENT - Todayís Fruit

Entering the mercado, I see an altar lit with candles.

Ave Maria, spiritus sanctus , the refrains of my childhood,

kindle reverence for the necessities, God and food.

We wander the stalls. Tomato, avocado, mango, papaya glisten

with color. I breathe so as not to be tempted by false hunger,

a greedy belly or lust for so much succulence.

I pick up several papayas, looking for the one,

becoming pensive.

Is it ripe? Should I buy two?

The shopkeeper smiles at me.

The light of his chocolate eyes washes into mine.

Here, this one, is todayís fruit.

 

AGING - Snowfall

 

Gray spikes through pores at my hairline,

laying ribbons of snow on the earthy brown.

So sudden. Like snowfall.

Age fingers my body, softening some lines,

etching others. Color fades, except the inner fire.

It beads into jewels that pulse

with the touch of my hands.

I bathe myself in this.

What flows through me

blends my essence with milk that is ever-flowing.

It warms sweetly, while time winters.

Through rhythms of pain and pleasure,

it abides. It remains when I shed this body,

cold upon the earth, like snowfall.

 


Kay Posselt

Since 1979, Kay has pursued four careers in her efforts to maintain a balance between family commitments and making a living. She attributes her ability to survive changes, surprises and disruptions to ďlooking withinĒ or ďexploring the heart.Ē Kay finds this journey yields increasing self-love as well as intuitive appreciation that dramas of life need not invade carefully nurtured inner peace. Currently she lives in Michigan with her husband where she writes and makes a living as a substitute teacher. She can be reached at kayposselt@yahoo.com

 

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