Haiku – Memory Lane — The Showers of Blessing

Haiku – Memory Lane Pungent words slashed wounds, Agony pierced chilled bones, Faded in memory lane. Daily Prompt: Pungent Daily Prompt: Faded

via Haiku – Memory Lane — The Showers of Blessing




Raw sawdust throat,
broken canteens around-
dehydrated bloat.

Never enough, empty moat-
no rain above,
Raw sawdust throat.

Drought will denote
dry soul inside-
dehydrated bloat.

though it is remote,
horizons width,
Raw sawdust throat.

Won’t pray by rote,
sated in His time,from
dehydrated bloat.

No empty quote,
but your refreshing promise,heals
raw sawdust throat,
dehydrated bloat.



( a new word for me. Means adj.
1884, from Latin limen “threshold, cross-piece, sill”, on dictionary.com)

The call first came,
stirred up cyclone of fear,
of who I really was.

Rain of accusations,
pounding in my grey matter,
Grip of steel, to yank me down to hopelessness.

Hope surfaced in a specific cross,
raw skinned, bloody, bruised figure,
crying “Father forgive them, for they know not what they do!”

Liminal conflict,
at my first, stumbling steps forward,
with stammering confessions bathed in tears.

Filthy pits and prison cells…

Shattered in Him

There was a time in my life when my attitude was putrid and rotten.  When living under a cloud of depression and remaining a prisoner to the fear and anxiety related to post-traumatic stress, it was hard for me to perceive any sense of the light.  I saw everything through a dirty, old filter and it governed much of my thoughts and attitudes.  Because of that, it was next to impossible for me to walk in an attitude of thankfulness and love.  Without even realizing the emotional and spiritual damage of those attitudes, I was bearing an awful lot of dead, rotting fruit.

I have experienced a lifetime of dissociation and hyper-vigilance.  My husband has had to walk carefully at times, because my startle reflex has been so intense that the slightest movement could send me clinging to the ceiling in a state of fright.  I cannot count how many…

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Lost and Found…

Shattered in Him

I was a missing teenager in the spring of 1990 at the age of thirteen going on fourteen. I cannot even recall how long I was gone, but it was somewhere around a few months. I had run away from home a few times previously and I was a troubled child who had been acting out.

However, this time, I did not set out to go missing.

I skipped school one day and was sitting on the swings at a park when two grown men whistled at me. They called me ‘beautiful’ and there was something about that kind of attention that made me respond and walk closer. My self-worth at that time was in the gutter, so I was vulnerable to whatever attention I could find.  The more attention they lavished on me, the more vulnerable I became. When one of them asked if anyone would be looking for me…

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Come out of the tomb…

Shattered in Him

Psalm 147:3
He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.

If someone were to cut off your air supply, an enormous struggle would ensue as you begin to fight for air. Instinct for self-preservation, which is an instinct we have been given so that we may act in our best interest, is one of the strongest instincts we have. Our central nervous system even has a wiring system designed to kick into gear when danger strikes. We have hormones that are designed to pump in order to give our bodies the strength needed to flee or fight.

But, what if someone has lost that instinct for self-preservation? How tragic that someone could become broken enough that their own need for survival goes completely missing. When the need for self-preservation becomes degraded, the mind is no longer sound. That person is not functioning in an identity that God created for…

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Bleed my metaphors,
Have a melancholy disposition-
Nail pierced wood,
wood splinters in position.

Have a melancholy disposition,
never healing with time,
wood splinters in new position,
angers greatest crime.

Never healing with time,
or endless self-analysis,
angers greatest crime,
talk through psychoanalysis.

Wound can’t grasp inside,
beyond me to proper, heal;
Smile, a saint, to hide-
from what is true and real.

Beyond me to proper heal,
operate on my heart-
from what is true and real,
what you promised is a start.

Operate on my heart,
and set on it a seal,
what you promised is a start,
plant love, true and real.


Soft halo streetlights,
and cars whoosh by with
darkened windows.

Grey stone and red brick,
with a good shaking,
could lose feet of
street debris and soil.

At your whispered call,
you look ahead, never up,
while the stones are deafening
in their non-response.

Hands crammed in khaki pockets,
a certain wistful hope in the
cavernous abdomen.

Enter a small cafe,
almost despairing at the
barren ordinary lights and walnut,
round tables.

The Van Gogh paintings promised their
warm yellows and melancholy blues,
laughing men and women.
You are sure conversation would have been
scintillating, the drinks lukewarm.

Staring into your black coffee in a plain white cup,
there is no knowledge of the angel near you,
urging you to look higher.