QUAKE
Some nights you are a lighthouse
But more often than not,
you are wicked
whipping
weeping
wind,
turbulent crash of waves,
the persistent beat of sea on shore,
wooing the sand.
I like to think the sea is letting out
her frustration at not being able
to pick up her abundant skirts
and sashay onto land
whenever and however far she pleases.
She has to be content with flowing,
waving,
rising,
crashing,
rolling.
Land is hard,
unyielding.
But you'd probably be, too,
if people fought and killed each other over you,
if, for every flower or tree that sprang out of you,
the blood, richly perfumed with youth,
of a child slain in peace time spilled on to you, in you,
if you heard rivers of life blood cry out for justice from
inside you,
and the most you can do is amplify that cry,
but really,
you only listen helplessly.
Perhaps this is why the earth quakes sometimes:
it gets too much.
It's the same inside you.
Quake then, darling.
Erupt in a wail,
wring the anguish and despair out of your soul.
Ride that hurricane.
Even better, dig into the core of it.
Put your finger on the pulse of it
and know why you quake.
Because to know a thing is to have power over it, right?
When next you quake, honey,
know why.
Joy
Chime
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