strip yourself bare.
so that you can find the place
where the wildflowers grow.
— find yourself (again).
© Liezel Graham 2018.
Photograph by Swapnil Sharma.
If you want to find who you really are, you need to remove the layers.
Tag: Loss
on healing (from the past).
i am seeking out
all the places
where my voice
was stolen.
leaving poems
filled with flowers,
in exchange.
— on healing (from the past).
© Liezel Graham 2018.
Photograph by Lisa Fotios.
A repost of a poem I wrote last year.
It seems right.
liezel
two sparrows’ worth.
do you remember
that dream?
.
the one that you held so
. tenderly
in your hands.
.
for a long while
you looked at it every day.
. breathing life into it
as often as you could.
.
until,
it got too hard
. to hope
for more.
.
and so,
after a while
you folded it up
. neatly.
like something no longer needed.
.
. but that’s not true.
is it?
.
i know.
.
it might be a bit dusty now.
. forgotten things often are.
.
and
. fuzzy
and
. frayed
around the edges.
.
that book you were going to write.
. remember?
.
that trip,
to see how the light
caresses the lavender fields of
. provence.
.
the marriage,
that has
slowly
stopped
breathing.
.
that house,
with a garden
big enough for children to build dreams in.
.
the
baby,
that you hear
when it’s still, at night.
. not yet there.
perhaps the time was never
. right.
or so you told
your broken heart
with the red moon
of
each
new month.
.
until,
it was safer to put it away.
.
it’s ok.
.
i know that, too.
.
but,
let me tell you
. dust,
is no match for courage.
.
and that’s all you need, really.
. two sparrows’ worth
of wild courage.
.
and
if standing in front
of
that
locked door,
feels hopeless?
. i’ve heard it said that
even if you’re down to your last coin.
.
. especially,
if you are down
to
your
very last coin.
.
. the last
of what you have to give,
often opens heaven’s door.
.
but you have to try.
. there’s no giving up.
.
so, go on, up you get!
.
listen.
do you hear that?
the rain is falling
. softly.
and you,
have some dusting to do.
.
—two sparrows’ worth.
.
.
© Liezel Graham 2019.
.
Photograph by Ricardo Esquivel.
on letting go of what is gone.
the silver birch
and
the oak,
called me into the woods
today.
.
.
i carried with me
all the things
that i have ever lost
.
. and never let go of.
.
.
and the weight of it all
was counted
in fear.
.
.
and
i sat beneath
the bare arms of the birch, reaching up.
.
.
. always up,
despite her season
of nakedness
and loss.
.
.
and we sang a lament
together.
. an ancient song
of letting go.
.
.
and it was hard.
.
.
loss,
can scrape the joy
right
out
of your bones.
.
.
and that,
which i never wanted to give up,
.
.
brought life,
. in the end,
like
. dead leaves
on the woodland floor.
.
.
and the silver birch
and
the oak,
sent their roots down,
.
.
deep
. deep,
down
into
the earth,
.
.
and asked for more.
—on letting go of what is gone.
.
.
© Liezel Graham 2019.
.
.
Photograph by Skitterphoto.com
this story, ends well.
in the late afternoon,
i light
a candle in my kitchen.
the visible hours
are
few
this time of year.
my eyes
and
my heart
both
struggle to see
clearly
in this season.
there is so much
in the air
that
hides
the ache
inside
and
this longing
for
all is calm
all is bright,
is overwhelming
at times,
and
perhaps
your
star is hidden
this year?
and,
when children sing,
you,
only
have
the memory
of
what
once
was,
to unwrap
and
the edges are frayed
and
the past
is
all
that
still
breathes.
and the past
might be
your (only) present.
and,
the nights are silent,
and
dark.
sometimes.
yes,
some seasons
are not
always
merry
and
bright.
i know.
but
we
keep
moving
and
clinging
to
the
hem
of the one
who heals.
so,
i carry this small flame
through
doorways
and
heart-spaces
and
i watch it
soften
the every-day
scratchiness
of the hallway
and
heart-ways.
ready
to welcome
anyone
who should knock,
seeking.
and,
tiny lights have done
this
deep
work,
forever.
this,
keeping the dark outside,
and
holding the night at bay.
bravely.
this little light of mine
flickers
and
sometimes,
fails,
but,
it fights.
oh,
it does.
turning fearful places
into
a place of hope,
high
on
top
of
a hill,
and
you can trust
that
your light
is still
enough.
enough
to
warm
hope
so broken
and
grief,
so fierce
it would rip the fabric
of
your
being.
but it won’t.
it won’t.
although it will try.
and
we will light
(our)
tiny flames
and
we
will
breathe
in,
and
out.
in.
and.
out.
until
we return
to where we
lost
the precious thing.
where we lost our hope,
and
in the end
we will
be ok.
our stories might be
broken,
but,
stories full of light,
always
end well.
just keep burning.
— this story, ends well.
© Liezel Graham 2018.
Photograph by Inna Lesyk.
Amidst all the lovely chaos of family and Christmas preparations, some of us
get lost and get tired from trying
to hide sadness and grief.
Your story might have broken bits written into its chapters,
but hold on — stories full of light, always end well.
liezel
when (your) winter is too long.
sometimes,
much like the frozen soil
in the valley of winter,
hope,
might
appear
to be dead.
do not be afraid.
it is just sleeping,
and
soon the light will fall on it,
and
snowdrops
will
gently
birth themselves
in front of your eyes.
fragile white hope,
strong enough to push through
frozen soil.
and
your
heart
will heal
once more.
— when (your) winter is too long.
© Liezel Graham 2018.
Photograph by Simon Matzinger.
Sometimes, everything seems dead.
Hope, dreams, relationships and even faith.
But, I was reminded this morning when reading about the daughter of Jairus, how often what we call dead, God calls sleeping.
Take heart.
Spring is coming.
liezel
♡
(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.
