Receiving (A Poem by Cathy Gruman)

No more a whisper,
an awkward name
in circles of disdain
rolling off lips
in criticism, praise, jokes
contrast and comparisons
seeming to know
Jesus
All mixed up
the good the bad
"sinners"
all of us the same
I wrestle with it all and resist others' call.
How I detest those who self appointment themselves with the task of sorting it out for the rest of us;
confusion, distance, self doubt, self hatred, paralysis,
we wonder where these come from.
I find joy in partaking of the gift that comes
from not knowing but receiving the gift of being.

Time to Abate (A Poem by Cathy Gruman)

Much lost
much hate
held on too long
our love is gone.
Letting go was slow -
too slow to free the robin's song,
who flew away
to breath
to see
to soar;
could not take another day's roar.
No forgiveness
suffocation
emasculation
dead air
without the river's flow.
The window's stuck; the last day open was early spring before the unexpected storm,
and when the rains came
our lives were torn.
Dead today
could be alive tomorrow
if we let go.
It's time to abate the force of holding on to the past;
let the robin sing with joy,
and throw the window open to feel the wind again.

A Blessy Mess

I'm a mess and I am blessed.
The clothesline twisted as the wind began to whirl.
The pants, shirts, socks and panties did sommersalts around the line,
while the box of clothespins went skating across the lawn.
I chased after the pins, and the box skidded further along, scratching the ground and making that sound we all hate.
The clothes I hung were my favorite worn jeans, not the skinny sexy type, but old Ralph Lauren faded bootcut, a size too big with partial worn freys on the pant legs.
There hung too, a couple of favorite tee's and two new panties; and I rarely wear matching socks so two blacks not matching were there too.
The church meeting was good in part, but some of it wore on my nerves.
Stop pretending and get on with living.
Say what you mean and stop blinking;
He knows what's inside and is bored with that dummy up thinking
that gets us nowhere but in front of blank stares.
He likes my worn clothes, my twisted up laundry
and the box that won't come back until I'm ready to go get it;
the scattered pins and my worn out jeans.
The weeds in my yard show a lack of regard,
but my panties are new
and that's one over you.