I wished to hide this week, I had good reason.

Rest your bleeding heart, they said,

do not listen to the cries and pleas of the children and their mothers, do not

look upon their bodies in the fields, and on the sands,

and in the camps of sorrow,

all over the earth. It is not your business. Turn off your machines.

Jut look away.

I have a right to hide now, I told myself, feeling pity for me,

my heart is frail and wounded, it has already been stopped.

My farm a good hiding place,  a sweet ostrich hole,

filled with lambs

and  sweet dogs and playful barn cats,

who dance in the moonbeams of the barn loft,

and wise donkeys, whose big brown eyes

speak of love and soulfulness, and a lover

whose smile can light the morning sky.

My bleeding heart is tired, and fragile,

can I not look away and say

this is not my news, my world, my story?

My heart scolds me.

It challenges me to face the truth of the world.

What, it whispers, does it mean to have a heart?

The children reach out to me, as their spirits seek a better world,

they haunt me, pull me out of myself,

and my tell-tale heart,

this world having failed them so profoundly.

How dare you hide?, they whisper,

Where were you all?

lifting their arms to say goodbye as they pass  by.

Remember us. Remember us. Remember us.

—

FEEL: The kiss of love soothe your aching heart.

The world has a heart of it’s own – so many, really, and sometimes,

there is no place to escape, no way, no right for me to turn my eyes,

from the dead children, crying mothers,

bleeding hearts that can never be healed,

war and suffering and hatred blot out the moon,

silence the lambs, fill the

eyes of the donkeys with tears.

So I have to look. And look again. And cry for my heart.

___

The world will always find me, it’s heart beats with mine.

Mother Earth is bleeding too, and her heart is mine,

we are one heart.

How selfish to ask for all this healing,

when there will be no more for so many.

LOOK: The sun’s sweet cheeks are blushing in the afternoon light.

How does one heal the bleeding earth,

it’s spirits crying out for sorrow and mercy,

and compassion, as the heartless politicians scramble to justify themselves,

and point their fingers,

and tell their lies.

I sat in my chair and stared out the window,

my bleeding heart spoke to me,

in the softest and most gentle whisper.

Take your photo, it said, write your poem,

seek out the color and light in the world,

that is your work and business.

Make sense of the light and images of the world.

The evil stories do not speak for all of the hearts in the world,

for the goodness

and beauty and sweetness and love in it. Trust the animals,

they will make you smile, do not hide behind them.

The light will heal your wounds,

the bright color soothe your tired spirits.

How, my heart asked me, did the daisy ever open it’s heart,

and give all the world it’s beauty?

The animals bear innocent witness to our shallow souls,

they call to us to bow our heads in prayer

for the broken souls and lives of the world,

and acknowledge them.

LISTEN: The bluebird, in her nest,  heralds  new life.

My heart calls upon me to feel the encouragement of light

against the being of sorry and hatred and suffering,

to spread the word.

Otherwise, we will all remain too discouraged and cynical,

too frightened and angry,

for our precious hearts to ever heal and lift us up.

WATCH: The sky pulls a mirror from it’s pocket and reflects the miracle  of life.

I will never fail you again, I promise my healing heart, every morning,

I will not let sadness and anger possess you.

I will never bend my knee to despair.