Syn stands softly illuminated in the shadowy doorway between our worlds. “My child,” she says soothingly
sweeping stray strands away from wet cheeks. Tenderness drips thickly—honey-sweet sympathy for mortals stuck
between justice and wintery injustice. Her pale eyes see what fleeting control looks like—its slippery
eel texture slithering deep below angry waters. Desperate hands grasping slimy weeds pulling pulling pulling toward
bright metamorphosis or crimson death. Knowledge lays within clear moonlit waves, torn by ravenous ravens screaming
mine, mine, mine. Ancient battles. Wood grains worn from violent pounding, brass doorknobs forcibly turned. Set
against it, Syn pushes back. Roaring, she melts man’s killing machines, burning trigger fingers, plucking prideful
plumage, tearing it apart piece by piece. No mercy for hateful truth slayers—Syn doesn’t forget
weeping mothers or irate fathers who hide clenched fists behind unshaven blank faces. “Be still,” she
whispers, standing inside cracked door frames, palms held in silent prayer. Forever guarding mortals from ourselves.
*Syn is the Norse goddess of watchfulness, truth, and doorways. She guards the door of the Fenislar (Friggs palace) refusing entrance to those unworthy. This poem is my latest attempt at processing the injustice around gun laws and mass shootings.
through multi-colored glass down simple carpet floors white walls turn brass tears transform into doors
shadow trees grow there lightening flowers do too whispers come for repair howling monsters to spew
creaking boards hold ache light bulbs illuminate pain rafters rattle and shake trauma flows like rain
lose yourself, my child within safe caring walls connect with inner wild listen to phoenix’s calls
for inside healing house nothing stays for long come in quiet mouse leave brave lion strong
*This poem was inspired by a comment left on my blog by Grounded African and is dedicated to everyone attempting to enter a building like this to heal and connect in therapy, especially my darling daughter. May you find your way through the dark.
I forgive myself for idealizations of holidays past For quick crying between wishes For wiping tears on my pumpkin apron For missing the harvest moon For yelling at myself for falling short For taking too many or not enough pictures For missing the sweetness of giggly formality For not savoring the warmth of deep red wine For demanding you write on the thankful chalkboard tree For unrealistic expectations and not asking for help For not seeing paper-thin leaves on the carpet as beautiful For forgetting the windowsill wishbone For making cranberry sauce when you just want canned For not snuggling under warm blankets For playing martyr music to myself
I am grateful it’s never too late to learn hard lessons For pretty glass pumpkins bought 20 years ago For delicious pies from Apple Hill For crochet leaf coasters and sparkling cider refills For round crackers and salty meat For the mystic splendor of deer on the ridge For marching bands and behemoth balloons For bad jokes and big laughter For pink cheeks and crackling firelight For making you write on the thankful chalkboard tree For the perfect turkey placemats for four For forgiveness and second chances For squirrel salt & pepper shakers For snuggles and holding hands For midnight sandwiches and full bellies For every moment we’ve had together
*Thank you for supporting my blog this year. Your kindness keeps me going. May your Thanksgiving, if you celebrate, be worry-free and wonderful.