In my parents house was a wretched ledge.
Unspoken, distant, loathing. Rod of Oak
That was destructive, not creative.
A stick that was leaned on during the rosary-
Catching thighs with stinging accuracy
Like tipping a clumsy steer for branding. Striking
Cruel, rising stiff. Injurious wood
Used in a wild dance named prayer.
I have been working on a book more off than on over the past twenty years on a way to heal the inner wounded child. It has always been sitting in that risky place of wonder what others will think or can I pull this writing together. Focusing outward seemed like a good place to work from, but much has coursed my blood in those years as Rilke aply puts it. Last night I went to my disorganized files and found my pieces and many distractive things I have not seen for years. I brushed them aside except for articles that pertain to this writing. For those who read my Blog keep me in your thoughts and prayers as I move toward this light.