Waiting

Darkest of the night 
when spoken
simple words
...my love the light 
lands perfectly
you have 
the face 
of an angel 
saving grace 
and all that we were taught 
in stained glass cathedrals 
ceilings reaching out 
grabbing hold 
of the heavens 
with windows that bleed
holiest of waters
pouring
onto the faithless 
color soothes the soul 
sinners and not 
bead readers 
in silent prayer 
words strung together 
signs of the Cross 
we have yet to bear 
the son, his, or her name
guiding the way 
bring us to our knees 
thankful for what we have
finally found 
and now as walls 
crumble around me 
piece by tiny piece 
my life is quietly
dismantled 
and only those 
that watch 
from high above 
can bring it all 
to an end 
while waiting has never
been a virtue
I ponder and question
I wait and wonder
counting the stars 
waiting for a peaceful 
slumber...that does not come...waiting...

© 2013 Trilby

Fall 2011

Steadfast and True

5 AM light flashes

cell phone buzz

just a reminder

there is a new day

a’ dawning

steadfast and true

and I can admit

there have been times

when the thought

was like the sound

of fingernails

to a chalkboard

dread shoots

between a fine line

up or down

depending on which way

the adrenaline flows

and just when I’m comfortable

in my own skin again

the calendar turns

the page and

staring me square

is another anniversary

of this or that

whatever keeps the heart

cemented in the past

and though I struggle

to set myself free

there is a warped

sense of comfort

in the familiar

the known

the well worn shirt

you left behind

wrapped around me

arms of yesterday

or knowing each riff

beat and break

like a deep breath

to a favorite love song

12 bars of sheer delight

steadfast and true

here in the calm

a slight haze

of sunlight

not completely

shinning through

hot cup of java

with a touch of honey

like a bee sting to my heart

I wonder if Jesus

would have jumped the track

to take back his last trip

to the garden

shifting fate to sheer coincidence

and while skipping stones

at your grave

bides the time

it’s not quite the same

spinning yarns

like spinning a tale

a web of better times

and poetic promise

stead fast and true…

© 2011 Trilby