Scale.

I know

a woman

round and

lush and

nurturing,

who fought

a war

with her body.

Believing

that

by becoming

less,

she would

become

more.

Reducing who she was

meal

by

meal

until her soul was

hollow

and still

the numbers

did not equate

with peace.

— Scale.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

The places I cannot go, yet.

I am

a house of

many rooms.

Quiet, dusty corridors

sunlight

gently

dripping in

like liquid

gold.

How I love to drink my tea,

a lovely Assam,

malty on the tongue

and comforting,

as I walk through

these spaces

gently touching

things

I had

almost

forgotten.

But not

yet.

It is comforting

to find

old friends.

You,

and you,

and even

you.

We must stay in

touch,

I say

to the past.

But

some doors

are

locked.

In dark corners

where the

light

does not

quite

reach.

And try as I might

when I stand before them

trembling key in

hand

I cannot enter.

I cannot enter

though

I must.

There is

work

to be done

within,

but not

yet.

And so,

instead

I sit before them

quietly

weeping

ink

onto paper.

Until.

— The places I cannot go, yet.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

Solace.

Endings,

do not frighten me

anymore.

Every night

the sun

whispers

farewell

to the moon,

only to

rise again

with fresh

courage.

— Solace.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

Grief. Linköping, 2007.

When I was told

that you

were

gone,

I was on soil that

did

not

know me.

I could not say

goodbye,

or

I

am

sorry

and

I

will

miss

you.

I sat

with grief

in

the

snow,

heart

and fingers

raw.

Unpacking

a lifetime

of

where

to

now,

and

unreconciled

denials

and

regrets.

And

I wonder

if all the

water

that

spilled

from

me,

that also

contained

bits

of

you,

has

nourished the

splinters

of grief

that I unwillingly

planted

there

and

would

I

be

recognised

on my return

to

find

what I have

somehow

left

behind.

— Grief. Linköping, 2007.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

On being Thomas.

God

within

and

still

I look

for

wounds

where

it

is

finished.

—On being Thomas.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

What the trees teach me in September.

A blackbird sings.

Notes

tumble

clear

over

sweet sprigs of hay.

Leaves

exchange

the known

for

the unknown,

as trees

humbly

let go of life.

Trusting.

And

I am here,

a life

made of seasons.

A solitary

witness to

the earth’s

worship.

And it is

good.

— What the trees teach me in September.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

(You are) The God of the verb.

And this is the thing

about You.

This great paradox.

There is a rest

in

You,

as much as there is an

active

seeking.

A pushing back

against

the world

and the pain

that follows

life.

The greatest gift

You

give

to

me,

is

choice.

Forgiveness

is mine,

but will

I receive

it

when You

place it

there

in front of my

fractured

heart.

Healing is there,

but I must choose to

ask for it.

Hope is there,

but I must look for it,

even in the dark.

Joy is there,

but I must give it a

chance

to

unfurl.

And sometimes this

is

a life’s work.

Seek Me,

You say.

Press in.

You are the God of

rest

and

the God

of

verbs.

There’s

so

much

more.

But always,

it is my

choice.

To receive.

Or

not.

To

leave

the old

life.

And

search

desperately

for the new.

For,

to

Whom

else

can

I

go?

—The God of the verb.