She is lost to me.

She was lost to me in life.

This journey to know her

rounds the bend

and rounds the bend again,

circles.

Running, round and round,

catching up with reflections of myself,

Always me.

I’m tired of searching,

and finding me.

Losing her,

everytime

I round the bend.

--

--

Writing is freeing. Writing is powerful. Writing is truth telling in plain sight. Writing is connecting the dots. Writing is saving lives. Writing is melting icebergs. Writing is the elixir of toxic wounds. Writing is the thread that ties. Writing is the chariot of wisdom. Writing is the prickling of hairs. Writing is the pooling of tears. Writing is radiant warmth. Writing is illumination. Writing is the way forward…

--

--

Dingle Peninsula

I am from

an Irish brood

youngest of nine.

Ghosts of potatoes

moors and fiords

Green moss and stones

fog and spirits.

Jesus, Mary, and Joesph

telling us how to be

kneeling in submission

conjuring up lies for penance.

Bells ring, ravens fly

echoes, upon echoes, upon echoes.

I am from god

I am from spirits long traversed

I am from across the sea

I am from above the sky

I am from all you see.

--

--

Jen Shields M.Ed, LPC

Jen Shields M.Ed, LPC

Daughter of nine. Mother of two. Lover of one. Runner of slow miles on wooded paths. Psychotherapist and Writing Instructor at ProjectWrite Now.