Empty #Writephoto

Empty

Sable and bristle brushes
clattered into the waste
between crinkled tubes of paint
gone her linseed and turpentine
she surrendered her easel to anger
and snapped her palette
in oily hues of cerulean blue
ochre and umber.

With room to spare
she stuffed the black bag
with false smiles and laughter
a whore’s fawning
over gallery Johns in tuxes
of mars and titanium
she discarded
the remnants of hope.

She left the bag at the corner
for dawn’s trash man
in a twilight of cadmium yellow
and alizarin crimson
her bitter heart she held close
bleeding against her chest
and doused the muse with spirits
watched sitcoms like an automaton
in ultramarine blue
she dreamt she was drowning.

In the watercolor morning
she ran breathless to the corner
her life collected and recycled
she rifled through her junk drawer
for her child’s dried up colors
a frayed synthetic brush
and on a whitewashed canvas
she sketched out her emptiness
and painted her soul full.

**

Special thanks to Sue Vincent for the beautiful photo prompt. Consider joining in!

Sunday Blog Share: Desperation Underneath The Ink Of Humility

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Desperation Underneath The Ink Of Humility

By Devereaux

As the wind blows

ripping fast across my back

I think of light, near and far

and a call to come home

It’s nearly eight

not too late

but I feel the urge to write

and call to come home

I’m here, alone

like you normally find me

If you kept a calendar, you’d always know

that I’ve always wanted to go home

As the twinkling dots amass in size

I close my eyes

and forget the time

that I wanted to go home…

(Continue Reading: Desperation Underneath The Ink Of Humility)

Sunday Blog Share: expiration date

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expiration date

by Julia Penner-Zook

there is no place
where love is unwelcome
– not the vision-clouding nor
the conscience-assuaging variety –
but rather
love that embodies sacrifice
bold engagement
grit
grace
groundedness

there is no end
no boundary
no roadblock
prohibiting ample hope
copious amounts of laughter…

(Continue Reading: expiration date)

Reflecting on Mother’s Day

Four generations of women on Mother's Day, 30 yrs ago

Four generations of women on Mother’s Day, 33 yrs ago

A reblog from last year, no less relevant today.

For several years, I had the great privilege of serving families in need. As part of my work, I was invited into homes and lives to guide, teach, nurture, and when I could, to gather baskets of memories brimming with new ways of being and believing in the world. At most, I accompanied mothers and children on their journeys for mere slivers of time, and yet in the collection of hours and days, I was witness to great suffering and love, desperation and hope.

Those who travel the helpers’ path are granted gifts. Not gifts wrapped in paper and laced with ribbon that we set on a windowsill and forget with time, but gifts that reside within us, that alter who we are and how we perceive our world.

We live in a time of divisiveness. Our politics shred our world, and unfiltered rhetoric spews like bile into the air, toxic with deception and blame. It is no wonder that we are losing our ability to listen and behold each other with open minds and compassionate hearts.

Struggling mothers and their children live everywhere: in the mountains of China, on the plains of Africa, in the arid lands of Iran, or simply around the corner. Across the globe, mothers touch small foreheads, peer into innocent eyes, and sing their children to sleep.  What would happen to our world if we became still and quiet and listened to those whispered songs?

The enduring gifts of a mother’s love have sustained children, families and communities through the centuries. They are timeless, borderless reminders of our common humanity and dreams of hope.

To mothers everywhere, I wish us a world of peace.