Monday, July 06, 2015


I'd always thought 

I handled stress well.  

Had a picture of myself

in my head 

of a woman who 

could walk through fire… 

till I took a stroll once or twice 

in the furnace.

Abednigo, I am not.


I am well fired clay.

Strong but brittle.

Not scorched, 

but damaged 

in that I can

never be made into

something other 

than the form I was

when I entered the kiln.


I’d envisioned getting older 
as a toughening process.
I believed that when I was matured, 
when my grey hairs had arrived,
my heart would be mighty.
That each beat and each thud
would be audible to those
who claimed a bit of my love.
Instead I find I'm brittle and worn through, 
that those things which did not kill me
most assuredly did NOT make me stronger.
I suspect I 'm doing it wrong.

That Hole

It feels like you wish 
that I was different,
more perfectly suited 
to help you feel better. 
I don't think the person 
you wish I was 
exists anywhere. 
The hole you are trying 
to make me fit in 
is not 
a person shaped hole.