Torn By Love

Meager is the cry
of the baby, but
I have tried
not to tear
your torn tissues,
must ask your permission.

I search for an amulet
to bring you
to soothe you. My
being is torn.

A girl of charm
not of tradition
is in my life, but
I am torn
by love
by being

I do not wish
to be a tear of the eye
to streak a bloody torn cloth.

I am torn
by love
by being

Though meager was my cry
when you lost your daughter,
I have tried to be a prayer
for you and
for your daughter

Born of your
cries and screams
I pray

you are
my precious Mother.
What charm may I bring you?

May I pray
for your daughter?
I wish I
had known her,
not caused
her death
though meager was my cry

I am torn
by love
by being.

Meet me
as I am
with gifts
with meager charms.

there is a girl
who wishes to be
a woman with me.

I am torn
by love
by meetings.

I pray in
many ways
we will all
grow together,
born into love
with your blessings.

cry me into life
beyond tradition.

I am torn
by love
by meetings.

Meet me
and her, your
new born-in-law, for

Loud and thunderous
is the cry of happiness

Join us in the rain,

—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

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5 thoughts on “Torn By Love

  1. Generally speaking, I think it’s rare that someone has an epiphany of love or revelation. I think, mostly, people stay stubborn, angry, hurt and afraid and will fight to maintain their internal false reality model which says that change or transition is impossible. The models are never quite the same as the complexity of reality where there are little niches of possiblity, cracks in sadness rocks where a little flower can grow…(well, ok, so I’m lost again — metaphors are hard little models of their own I suppose)

  2. Rare – but it exists. We know it exists. I didn’t put my kids in school because I knew it existed and I thought school would school it out of them. Of course, when they wanted to go to school, I immediately put them in. If I said they couldn’t go to school then that would be it’s own form of schooling. As I see it, that’s much different than mandatory attendance. I trust in their being and they know it. Or is it their existence in which I trust? I don’t know. What I trust in is a sort of unknowing. But maybe that unknowingness is only only based on my own stubborness?

    I hope flowers can grow in the cracks of sadness. If they can’t, what is left to us?

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