Blessed Are You Who Bear the Light

 

Blessed are you
who bear the light
in unbearable times,
who testify
to its endurance
amid the unendurable,
who bear witness
to its persistence
when everything seems
in shadow
and grief.

Blessed are you
in whom
the light lives,
in whom
the brightness blazes –
you heart
a chapel,
an altar where
in the deepest night
can be seen
the fire that
shines forth in you
in unaccountable faith,
in stubborn hope,
in love that illumines
every broken thing
it finds.

– Jan Richardson

Even When the Light is Low

I turned the clock back to the dark That’s what it felt like in my heart The midnight hour reappeared Among a few unfallen tears The hidden hand tugs on my shoulder Calls my name, but I won’t go Cuz the world speaks in poetry Just the way it’s supposed to be There is still a way back home Even when the light is low And even if my time is short Don’t tow me back to port Point me starboard, out to sea And let the tide have its way with me The hidden hand tugs on my shoulder Calls my name, but I won’t go Cuz the world speaks in poetry Just the way it’s supposed to be There is still a way back home Even when the light is low Are you weary, heavy laden? Just how long will you be waiting? The hidden hand tugs on your shoulder Calls your name, but don’t you know That the world speaks in poetry Even when it’s not supposed to be You will find your way back home And you will never be alone Even when the light is low Even when the light is low --Tom Prasada-Rao

(Written 11.7.23 as Tom endured chemo for a cancer that took his life 6 months ago--but could never take Tom's light).

On Those Days

 

On those days
when you miss someone the  most

as though your memories
are sharp enough
to slice through skin and bone

remember how they loved you.

Remember how they loved you

and do that

for yourself.

In their name

in their honour.

Love yourself

as they loved you.

They would like that.

On those days

when you miss someone the most

love yourself harder.

--Donna Ashworth

Dresser Memento

 

The keepsake I used to display of dad

was a photograph of him and me

when I was little, walking down a hall

in the high school where he taught English

rows of lockers on either side of us

like parts of the mind where memories live.

My small hand in his, we were silhouettes

against sunlight through the glass door exit.

One day I realized I am older now

than he was the afternoon this picture

was taken, which made me feel uneasy.

So, I replaced it with a whelk shell

bigger than my fist and the slate-blue color

of a storm-tossed, foamy sea. We found it

on a walk at dawn in the Outer Banks

four years before melanoma killed him.

That morning, as the sun rose above

the horizon, a hundred-strong dolphin pod

swam by close to shore, many of them

leaping from the water with apparent joy;

the splash of their bodies against the surf,

the rhythmic spray of their exultant breath

still resonates inside that spiral shell

when I hold it to my ear and listen.

--Jason Harlow 

[Jason's parents both taught at the same high school where I teach. Jason's dad died 25 years ago now, the same year as my own father died of melanoma].