I’ve been a poet longer than I’ve been a writer. Like little Tierney playing the piano, little Em was drawing pictures and writing accompanying poetry.
Tierney loved my poEms. You know those friends who encourage your art and the hopes and dreams within? One of those people was Tierney. I wrote a few poems for her over the years, to cheer her up or because her spirit inspired me.
And so it’s not morbid or gloomy, now that you know the backstory, to write Tierney out of this mortal coil.
I believe these two particular sparks
will meet and cause a fire someday,
Crackling warmth, laughter dancing up the walls
of this little red schoolhouse of the heart.
For Tierney with love. x0x0
This is not a time to die
But to soar. Just another turn of the
Spiral, not the end nor the
Beginning, but the middle ground
With all its slippery slopes.
One bird, like one thousand birds.
Every breath a raindrop
Dancing off a tin roof.
Love, the definition of never-ending
And a fire burning within
And a place to begin.
It can take one hundred years
To peck off this shell, this
Growing while we’re dying, this
Heart beating for real.
It’s a leap and then a crash.
A sore and then a soar.
A Grand-Canyon-sized ache.
A wing breaking into song.