Meeting Martin

I must have looked a sorry sight

My hair so short it gave no cover for red, puffy eyes;

Tell-tale tracks across my swollen cheeks,

The heaviness of heart I could no longer hold.

 

I had a note clasped in my hand,

“Two weeks off work” he’d said,

Not fit to care for others when my own needs

Had erupted from the depths

Like burning lava of deep-buried sorrow

And all those years of longing to be loved.

 

Here comes the man!

At just the moment I was wandering I know not where

Here comes the man!

No place to run, no time to hide

 

And so you saw me, all exposed in pain.

Instead of crossing to the other side

Compassion rose – the doctor-in-the-making that you were…

Or maybe just a spark of something more?

With shining eyes your smile advancing

Carrying my future across the car park

 

That day although we’d hardly met,

You scooped me up

And never put me down again

 

 

with thanks to the impetus provided by Leicester Writing School I am starting to write again

Sally Ann was-Red

 

Kiss of life

Mouth to mouth resuscitation

.

I have been treading water far too long.

These treacherous torrents took me off my feet,

The swirling currents carried me away

To places I had no desire to go,

Tsunami-force of circumstance and pain,

The waves and breakers pushed me to the depths.

And fighting back, for days and weeks and months,

I rose again to take another breath,

To keep myself alive with hope and grace

And feel the sunshine warm upon my face.

.

But now it feels I’ve reached that final point,

The drowning person waving one more time,

His hand stretched out, continuing to hope,

Betrayed by weight and weariness at last.

The light fades out, the final breath expelled,

The waves and breakers pushed me to the depths,

To make my bed and lie on it below,

For there is nowhere deeper you can sink.

To rest in darkness, hidden from the light,

With bedrock underneath, I end the fight.

.

So now, if I am still to walk this world,

My only prayer is for another’s breath,

The kiss of life, the arms that lift me up,

A resurrection from the place of death

.

Originally written and posted in 2010. The Easter theme continually returns – perhaps life is about learning to die.

Here’s a prose piece full of poetic ideas, a discovery of writing as therapy, the healing balm of words that come out of pain

Sally Ann Dyer's blog

One day when we were not expecting it, the man in black appeared on the horizon.  We all stared at him, appalled – a portent of doom.  He was far enough away that we couldn’t really make out his features… except for the glinting black eyes.  Is he moving towards us or are we moving toward him?  I would willingly eyeball that threatening gaze and stare him down, however he isn’t looking at me, but at my son.

The funny thing is, that man is on everyone’s horizon.  He usually remains hidden, sometimes showing himself just before his trap is sprung, sometimes coming up from behind and devouring a life in an instant.  He stalks battlefields and hospitals: his breath is feared.  I know Someone stronger than he, who waits beyond, light to his darkness.  When my time comes I will pass right through the shadow into Another’s arms, so there…

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The deepest link

Manoah’s wife    30.1.10

 The words are spoken.

They don’t so much hang in the air as fall

As swift and devastating as a blade

Slicing my mind, piercing my heart,

Leaving me frozen

.

I know what they mean:

Pronunciation of a path of pain, a coming death,

Which is not mine, but yours, my son.

As you collapse beside me

My womb begins to bleed.

.

And I am simply Sam-son’s mother,

And all my life contracts to this,

A nameless woman with a calling

To help you walk the road before you,

To meet your destiny with peace.

.

Can there be strength found in such weakness?

For all your hair will go before too long…

Will there be honey found inside the carcass?

And can one family be of any value,

Stumbling blindly forward, wielding a jawbone,

Angry beyond belief, thirsty enough to die?

.

Give me a pillar to push!

I am but a nameless mother,

But I will leave my mark.

.

Manoah and his unnamed wife were Samson’s parents in the book of Judges chapter 13

First posted on Stories from the Street & then Sally Ann Dyer’s blog in October 2010

The Law of Unintended Consequences

The fundamentals of orthodoxy

And the exercise of empathy

Do not instil compassion

Compassion is neither taught nor caught

It is organic

It oozes from the spleen

It is as natural as blood

It sucks up the oxygen of dying planets

It has no choice

 

Compassion is not passion

for change

Nor is it a simple servant

Random acts of kindness are not random

if they are strategised from a pulpit

Neither are the Acts kind if they are offered

at arms length or attached ultimately to

an agenda for change

Passion is not compassion

 

The compassionate crave

They are junkies of necessity

To be all and to give all to the cause

Their fix is love, it is a cruel master

that takes no prisoners and does not release

its grip on the inner most soul

 

Compassion is a gene

It is hot wired into the DNA of the cursed

It creates a double helix of struggle between

the abusive order to serve

And the addiction to offer all;

 

To simply Be There