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She Could Not Let The Gods Die By Louise Gallagher Tired now, she prayed feverishly to her Lord God of her faith committed to following His way to the other side. It was the way of the cross she’d carried away from the land of her birth when she’d left to follow the way of a man who appeared like one of the gods she could not let die. She carried her faith like a cross but could not let the gods of her land of birth die just in case. You never know when you might need a god of another colour she whispered into the shroud of mystery that encircled her in the dead of night. You never know who will meet you at the door of Heaven or Hell or Svarga loka. And when the time came for her to pass over through the gates of an unseen world she held tight to the rosary she’d carried with her from the land of her birth as her lips silently moved, praying feverishly for her soul to achieve enlightenment. I have never let you die, she whispered with her dying breath where karma met Moksha on the way of the cross releasing her from all earthly ties free to live in peace forever on the other side.
To read the story behind this poem, please visit me on my blog, Dare Boldly.
EXPOSED by Louise Gallagher Exposed bare naked limbs leafless hanging on to memory of a branch fallen against wind-worn trunk standing stalwart against time and weather battering limbs and breaking boughs made fragile by the wind blowing relentless through your branches sheltering the sap within that flows more slowly now with each passing season. I lean against your body scars and ridges harsh against my cheek. I too am facing time’s relentless pull I whisper into the wrinkles etched upon your weathered skin. My body tells the same story of time passing of life lived sometimes walking with the wind sometimes against my limbs move, not as smoothly now, the bones more fragile able to break with one fall yet still I stand stalwart against time while inside the blood flows sluggish as I weather life’s journey leaving me exposed to each passing season.
Airborne by Louise Gallagher She wandered through her days like a leaf tossed by the wind aimless, directionless, weightless her heart aching her feet leaden tethered to some invisible thread of memory caught in the veil of yesterdays lying in the darkness of believing she did not know how to fly. It’s not true. You are born to fly, a voice deep within whispered in one of those moments when her attention grew weary of the world beyond the pale of all she could not see in the here and now leaving her exposed to the exquisite mystery of her life. She didn’t believe it the idea of flight seemed too impossible the mystery too deep. She had feet, not wings she whispered back, closing the door on chance as she turned back into certainty. But then, one day when she least expected it she felt the urging to stretch beyond the realm of her imagination and on that day she discovered her wings hiding beneath the layers of life hammering at her to stay tethered to threads of memory keeping her tied to life’s heavy toll. It was that day she discovered she was born to fly and her dreams were too.
Beautiful Tender Mercy ©2021 Louise Gallagher One day, when you least expect it you will stand at the threshold of your heart and hear its pounding insistence you step across the liminal space between not loving yourself and loving yourself with all your being awakened to every beat of your heart. In that moment, you must choose between staying locked in the darkness of believing your flaws and many imperfections are too wide and bulky to fit through the doorway to your heart or stripping away the heaviness of your belief you do not deserve your love because you are so imperfect and scarred and scared of loving yourself you will never be free of the fear of loving yourself. To choose to stay locked in darkness is easy. It’s the comfortable shirt you’ve worn forever. The one you thoughtlessly put through the washing cycle so often you no longer worry about putting the machine on delicate. You know this shirt is tough enough to take your abuse. But, to risk stripping away the shirt and tearing it to shreds. To risk standing exposed with all your scars and scared self naked to the prying eyes of imperfection. Ah, well that is the penultimate act of courage you will ever commit. One day, you will stand at the threshold of your heart and be asked to commit to loving yourself in all your wounded, flawed beauty. On that day you will know the sound of freedom is not a song sung by those with the courage to climb every mountain and ford every sea. It is the sound of your heart falling deeply in love with the perfection of the beautiful tender mercy of being held in the loving embrace of your arms wrapping themselves around your heart as you whisper joyfully, I Love You..
Perhaps ©2020 Louise Gallagher In a rush to make-meaning in all that has happened in all that has gone wrong or right in all that has been lost or gained I lose myself in the desperate struggle to not feel what I tell myself has been lost. Perhaps in my struggle to make it all make sense or have a purpose or fit into a box that only I can see I lose sight of all I cannot see. Perhaps, the meaning is in the experience. Perhaps, the making sense does not make sense. Perhaps, when I allow the purpose of everything to be the experience of everything without holding on to it all without fearing losing it all without judging it good or bad acceptable or unacceptable necessary or unnecessary I will find myself in that liminal space where all I have and all I am and all I know are nothing more than all I have to let go of. And, perhaps when I let go of naming all I have all I lost all I won all I know I will find myself in all I am. Perhaps then I will experience the all that I am as the most precious gift of all.
In the Dread of Winter’s Grip by Louise Gallagher November 2020 An arctic wind nips in eager expectation of the sun’s waning light as shadows lengthen and geese fly south in sisterly formation beneath a moody November sky. And memories of summer blooms fade in the lengthening shadows that herald the approach of winter's kisses. Silently, as vapid sunshine seeps stealthily across the far horizon a frosty chill descends upon the pristine stillness of a wintery landscape lulled to sleep beneath a blustery grey sky. And the promise of spring waits patient deep beneath the silence of snow falling into the dread of winter’s grip.