Poetry

poetry, and poetic writing, regarding life, death, and many things in between

on keeping family bonds instead of feeds
© Elizabeth Henry (June 2024)

No public picture painted
of relationships off feeds,
but then when did content ever communicate
the real depth of anything?

What has been done,
what’s been grown,
been found,
sown.

Heartache and reconciliation,
laughter and loyalty,
all best kept, discerned,
in social media anonymity.

31
© Elizabeth Henry (January 2024)

the murmurs have started
saying time is running out
but years only add, not subtract
for I have eternity in mind

so in this somewhere
between young and old
I remain grateful
however more years unfold

the lines on my face
are beginning to stay
my faith grows more steady
I no longer search for the way

to practice and love
to grow and to find
a quiet peace and security
for my heart and my mind

so on this earth, in this home
with this family I love
I celebrate thirty-one years
and much more to come

To Pray
© Elizabeth Henry (January 2024)

to pray is to hope,
to practice humility.

The Leaves Are Not Afraid of Death
© Elizabeth Henry (October 2023)

the leaves are not afraid of death
perhaps they also know
there is more to come beyond it
content in their maker and their purpose
having spent their seasons
in good company and occupation
they release their life in peace
and somehow glow their brightest
in the end

Autumn song
© Elizabeth Henry (September 2022)

and so comes autumn
with its freshness and warmth
as nature unmasks itself
to another kind of beauty
sacred delight
blessing in harvest
peace in life and death
quiet our minds
teach our bodies
to discern all that has been given to us

‘just a regular mom’
© Elizabeth Henry (August 2022)

not a cool mom
just a regular one
occupied with the divine
blessing the souls entrusted to my earthly care

Maturing
© Elizabeth Henry (April 2022)

the more grown
the more foolish excuses of youth
sound in the mouth
growing old is a privilege
seek truth

Passing Days
© Elizabeth Henry (April 2022)

The thing is, someday they’ll all just be old memories. How bittersweet and heartbreaking, how precious and beautiful.

through love we sow
in humility, reap
the fields become more fruitful
the more toil they endure
we rest together

I looked in the face of inspiration
And my fingers fluttered to create
Unable to enjoy free from the demand to also produce

Who am I to consume the genius of others
I must also be worthy
Worthy to partake in imagination
“I belong here” my creativity insists
‘Prove it” imposter syndrome responds

So I take up the pen,
and the needle,
and the paper,
and the brush,
and the fabric,
and the lens,
and the look,
and the form,
and the style,
and the vision.

If not my own
Something of yours
Whatever you might like
Whatever you might praise

Am I interesting to you?
Do you admire me?

Performance anxiety induced frenzy
Passion to prove to you
Or was it to me
That I am evolved enough to participate

Therein was my creative process

And then,
Just the other day,
I perceived the presence of inspiration
And distinguished that was all it asked me to do.
And it had little to do with you and it had little to do with me
And it, and I, was enough

Inspiration without a second thought,
how unusual, how fascinating, how enjoyable.

Am I merely the result of scattered inspiration?
A prism of others,
A little of everyone, no one fully,
Not even myself.
Am I allowed into the equation of my being?
Or do I toil in the earth of imitation all my days.

When I think I have finally found me,
It is simply another mask glimpsing out from under the fragments of the old one.
The layers know no end and bear no politeness in their durability,
All promising freedom from yet another embarrassment of revelation,
But once more failing to last after the reckoning of time requests it stay.

“Here I am world” I declare,
Robed in the satisfaction of my newest find,
But to tatters those garments still fall and I am ashamed to stand among them,
Retreating once more to the safety of naked anonymity.

Like the autumn leaves that always fall eventually,
Some on their own time,
Others rushed by a brisk wind that reveals the weakness of their hold,
My visions of myself continue to shed.
I have grown older now,
And with each passing year the fall is broken by more and more melancholy

And yet,

As the lows echo with a melodrama fit for youth,
The highs continue to call,
Whispers of identity and stability
The promises are evergreen

And even while I weep,
Repentant and abashed at being fooled again,
Even in the depths of my despair.
And strange as it ever was,
Even such a thing as small breeze,
That may suddenly appear,
Could still be all I need to wipe my eyes and begin again.

Such a task it is to be human.

It is Spring now
Warm breaths are inhaling, exhaling
The ice and snow are melting away
And there are vital signs again
Color all around

Blue and yellow in the sky
Purple and pink in the trees
Green all along the ground

Fresh and full of life
The air is dense with possibility and hope
Rains replenish and renew
And there is an excitable energy present
A rising of life
Breaking free from the quiet

Not to say it isn’t difficult
Coming to life always includes some hardship
But the promise of a future is here
And it can not be mistaken
And it will not be restrained

It is Summer now
Hot and full of passion
Colorful and wild
Love with abandon flows like a fever in the veins of the day

Sweat drips like warm rainy nights
And there is somehow a safety in the thickness of the air
Like nature’s weighted blanket
Come to support
And remind us to take longer, deeper breaths
Because while it is a season of wonder
And seemingly endless resources
It is also a season of transgression
If there lacks enough acknowledgement of our humanity

Forever and fleeting moments all wrapped up in one
All of the times they implore you not to miss
Because they will pass so quickly
Here they are now
How will you remember them later?

It is Autumn now
And while there is still color
It is all a more unified palette
It is here we see the most beauty that is offered in this motion of metamorphosis
Wrapped in warm layers and rich in intimacy
It is a time for both relief and revival

Wisdom from seasons past begin to fall like leaves
Gentle, across the green ground that is just beginning to brown itself
The crispness in the air is fresh
Despite the age of the year
It enters in like a second wind
A combination of refreshing and grounding
It feels different now that it did before
Sturdier
And somehow sweeter
Having the memories of what has been
To give perspective on what is here now

This is when the matter must be settled in the soul
How, through the truth of a season of dying,
A vision of life can still be taken up
How to see the dimming
Not as a fiend and a fight
But as a grace and a gift

It is Winter now
Color and energy are no longer in bloom
Though notes of their sweetness still linger in the air
Serene and quiet and slow
That is the echo of these days
A season meant for peace and remembrance

A coat of cold
Of stillness
Is settling
Movement and growth are more difficult
But there is still life here
In the quiet, in the repose, it endures

Steadily endures through final trials
Happily endures through final joys

Until,
One moment to the next
It no longer does
A final warm breath breathes
And from it the season begins to melt and it is the end.

…or is it?

For there is the first of a warm breath
Also being taken in this moment
A light and lovely one
And it is taking up the call
From the one that melts the snow
And stepping onward to bring a new season once more

It is Spring now