(the world is weeping) and there is tender work to be done.

you can bring

someone

a basket of hope,

soft and fresh.

.

.

but

you

cannot

make

them

eat.

.

. a broken heart,

is not easy to feed.

.

.

and,

watching the light

fade

from the bones

of someone

you

love,

.

.

can shrink the heart.

.

.

yes, it can.

but,

you must not give up.

.

. we,

are the light bearers.

the ones who chase darkness

from corners,

as we help

search for lost coins. and lost dreams. and lost

hope.

.

. we,

are the ones

who

plant

mustard

seeds

in dusty soil, and .

tell terrifying mountains

to move.

.

.

even

though

our

voices

break.

.

. we,

are the ones

who

carry

water

in buckets

for those

who are

too tired

to hope

for a harvest.

.

. we,

are the reminders,

with life on our tongue.

.

.

the ones who

whisper,

.

. i know this road, too.

take my hand.

i will not leave,

you.

.

.

so,

don’t give up.

not now.

.

.

roll up your sleeves.

straighten

your

bruised

heart.

.

. listen.

.

.

the world,

is weeping, and

.

.

there is tender work

to be done.

— (the world is weeping) and there is tender work to be done.

.

.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

.

.

Photograph by Rene Asmussen.

on being the holy broken.

you wonder

if it is worth

living your life

cracked

wide

open, whether

.

.

wearing your heart

on your sleeve

and

all your

hopes

carried in

unclenched

hands,

is ever safe, where

.

.

all the world can

see, and

all the world can

say

what they feel

about the tender courage

that has

taken

root

within you.

.

.

it will not be easy.

no.

definitely not.

there will be pain.

it is a new birth,

after all.

.

.

but, you must not

curl

inward.

.

.

lift your head.

unfurl your spirit.

reach upward.

live outward.

.

.

you are the holy broken.

.

.

the one holding the light.

.

.

and if you show your scars, people will come

and sit with you,

and they will listen.

.

.

and this

is how we heal each other.

by living gently,

and walking vulnerably.

unafraid of opinion.

ready to wipe away

tears

and

fears

and

other darkness,

with the light

shining

from

the cracks

in our bones.

moved only by the spirit.

.

.

so, yes—do it.

live your life a white dove

on the battlefield.

.

.

cracked

right

open.

.

.

it will all be ok.

.

.

—on being the holy broken.

.

.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

.

.

Photograph by @luizclas .

graffiti.

when i was

twelve,

i learned

that

i could

love

someone,

and

fear them,

at

the

same

time.

that,

fathers

write

words

on the inside

of

their

daughters’

eyes,

that

will

blur

their

vision

forever.

a self-destructive

wall

of

graffiti,

forever

spoken

in other voices, despite

a holy whitewash.

i learned

that

those,

whose

eyes

are

backlit

with

the pure light

that

is

born

from

knowing

they are safe,

do not understand

the

language

of

spray-canned

letters

and

diy

painted-over

walls,

and

so,

i learned

to search

for

other

voices

who

knew

how to

wallpaper

the

inside

of the brain, and

this

work

is

never-ending, really.

it

never

ends.

but,

with

each

new

layer,

the

message

fades.

d

i

s

t

o

r

t

s

until,

i can

almost

believe

that

i

once

was

enough.

— graffiti.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

samaritan.

loss,

the kind that

settles

in your

bones, because

it has become

a regular visitor.

unwanted,

of course.

feared,

as well.

this

kind

of

loss

that

explodes

through

the front door

of

your life

and rips

the curtains

from the windows,

allowing

everyone

to see

the inside

of

what was once

hidden

private

sacred,

until.

this loss,

can fester

and

cause

your

heart to breed

bitter

and

your

tongue to sing

self-destruction.

so,

you must not let it.

do

you

hear

me?

whilst the windows

are

bare,

throw

them open.

and,

when you

see

their eyes

from the other side

of the road,

let them look.

let them gawk.

your pain,

is

your

pain.

let them stare, but

you,

you,

let the light in.

lay it all out

on

the

floor

and

let the light

soak up

the poison.

and

with time

loss,

will

gain

weight,

more

and

more,

until

one morning

you will look

up

and

see another

with

a

splintered front door,

and you will

find

compassion

empathy

love,

pouring from your

hands

and

you

will

mend

another’s

curtains,

ripped

from

windows,

and

you,

will be love.

—samaritan.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

With this poem, I wish I could flesh out the back-story, but I cannot.

Not yet.

But, I know that loss, can breed bitterness if you let it, or, it can grow bigger and metamorphosise with time — this, is not a quick thing — into something beautiful.

If you will let it, it will soften your heart and your hands and you will become Samaritan to others who need someone to cover their nakedness from the world’s prying eyes.

So, you let the light in.

Yield to it — the loss and the light.

It will be ok.

on being wild.

i am not

soft

and

beautiful, fluent

in the language

of

women

who

know

how to act,

how to speak,

how to

be,

round

and

pliable

and

tame.

this

truth,

i have

always

known, and

i carry

it

fiercely.

i am

thorn

and

metal,

shaped

by

war.

and,

somewhere

between

nine

and

all

the

other

years

that

formed

my

skin,

i

learned

to

keep my edges

sharp

and

wild.

unrestrainable.

and,

this

is

where

i

hide.

— on being wild.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

be gentle (with yourself).

you,

are a life made of seasons.

do not apologise for

the starkness

of your winter.

— be gentle (with yourself).

© Liezel Graham 2018.

It takes a great deal of courage to live transparently.

We are encouraged to put on a brave face, a happy face — think positive, pray more, hand it to God.

But sometimes, these things do not lift the burden.

And, this is ok.

Learn to be gentle with yourself and the season you are in.

Learn to be gentle with others and the season they are in.

Sometimes, a kind word and quiet companship are more powerful and more healing than (well-meant) advice.