I. Listen to My Story
I was only a teen who had no sense.
That’s why I’m here
In this spot under the trees.
Won’t they forget me?
I’m looking for them to tell them
I am here and
Just to say my name
One last time.
Why was I so senseless?
The clouds took me too soon.
I listened to the wrong tunes,
Dark, pounding, impudent.
Now I am lost.
Can you help me?
Where can I go?
Is that the door?
I’m just a kid with no sense.
How was I supposed to know
What would happen?
I can’t get past their tears.
They hold me tight.
How can I break free?
Where is God?
No, don’t leave me; listen to my story.
I’ll be fine and find my way
If my girlfriend is OK.
Go on. Go on. Tell her.
Don’t hold me down with your tears.
I have a story, a reason.
They told me I would feel great.
But now I’m here looking for the way, just a kid.
No, don’t leave!
I was young, buff, full of vigor.
Girls loved me. I was strong and grand to all.
Still, I was stupid.
Tell them I am sorry.
What was I thinking?
Now I’m here.
It will take me a while to see the light.
Their tears are like ropes.
But I’ll be fine. I’m sorry.
Put away my senior ring.
Take apart my room.
Box my trophies. I have a place.
They will take me there.
I’m just there to say I’m okay.
I can be free once they
Loosen the ropes of tears.
Fill my room with your own gifts.
There is no point to sing such grief.
II. Tell Them Who Will Listen
Listen to my story.
I was a man who worked hard,
A laborer.
Dirt lined my nail beds
From toil that cost me years.
My hands were calloused,
But not my heart.
My wife, pregnant,
We were happy.
Our home, built and painted in all the colors.
Still, we lost that little soul too soon.
Our tears washed our souls
But could not flush off our grief.
My toil was not the cure
For this deficit in love.
Our loss stole our smiles.
We sat like trees for years
Rooted in grief.
Can you hear me?
Though torn apart,
We are not alone here.
This is my garden now,
And we are tending it.
We are family in loss,
But not in this garden.
Tell them who will listen.
III. Hello, It’s Mom
Hello, it’s Mom. You called for me, so here I am!
Dad has visited you. Do you recall the dreams?
I called you shortly after everything,
You thought it was just static,
But I had so much to tell you.
I’m in a good place.
I can see old friends and play cards.
I’m learning about
How it is,
Who we are,
Why we are.
Maybe I’ll be back there.
Someday and one day.
So many lessons to review.
So much to learn yet.
I recall everything;
You were a big help.
Don’t worry if you cried in fear.
I know you did your best.
I was not me.
I’m here for you now.
I’ll be fine; let go of worry.
Dad knows best here.
He’s been here before
As he told you.
We’ve seen all the old souls
In our ancient lineage.
You will know, someday.
I am more than Mom,
Dad is more than Dad,
You know?
We have many forms in this race.
God has God has God.
There is no beginning, no end.
It’s like a quilt, many stitches and layers
With complex designs.
As above; so below.
You are a finger of God
Reaching out to the human being until rebirth,
And so you will return to God.
And God will return to God as well.
Then we will be one again.
Essence to life to dust to essence.
We here know this.
I will return, and there are many who will
As will you.
This is our choice.
We are fine!
So glad you asked!
Let’s keep in touch.
Much love,
Mom
IV. Tiny Markers
Tiny markers gently placed on raised soil.
Little bears, backpacks, and angels with infant wings.
Muffled voices whisper truth from their grand little beds
Pillowed by soil wet from tears.
Gabriel led me there,
Where I placed tiny gifts for these great souls.
Some were twins.
Some never breathed.
Some never cried.
Some never laughed.
Some were ready for a school day
Let out by snow.
Scattered about, little toy soldiers
And dolls dressed in lace.
All tossed about by wind and storm.
All these unopened birthday gifts
And holiday treasures
Clutched by tiny hands.
All were together in this
Special garden of woe
Visited by parents
Coming to pray
Among the new sprung buds in Spring.
Who, God, did this?
Why such sorrow in early light?
What can we see in these early departures?
Who gave me Gabriel to show me this truth
That dust to dust is so young?
Or was it just little cries to come out and play?The
V. You Sit in Your Garden
You sit in your garden but
Where am I?
You, there, surrounded and protected
By fauna and flora
As you swat at bees
And stomp on ants to cross the grass.
You laugh as you eat Light and
Make merry with companions.
I’m lost to that dream now.
It was not my choice
But an accident, unforeseen.
I was just as wanton and naive.
How little I knew of myself,
Or the sun, the rain, the stars,
Or of the end of time.
I was not ready to leave,
So here I am attached to cold stone
With you only in a haze, and
I cannot speak your name for
Lack of a translation.
Where am I but nowhere.
Who am I but no one.
Night is always; always is night.
I cling to the wall of night
With no release and no joy,
Not even you in your garden
Are ready to know me this way.
Not even lightning knows my name,
For it is a mere flicker to my rage.
I am blind in this abyss, stumbling
To find a guest in this forlorn place,
To find a slice of dawn in endless night, where
I am but a mortar to shadows
As you slumber in your garden.
VI. I Am Secrets
I am Secrets,
Slumbering here by the creek,
Sunlight hitting my rainbow heart
As I glisten like a blanket
Over my bed of grass and lady fern,
Not surrendering though they beckon:
It’s time for you now
To spring into hope and truth.
I am Secrets.
All my treasures gone to ash,
Leaving me with lapping waters
As I cling onto my soil,
Trampled by those arriving
To skip rocks
Or capture frogs,
Crooning for mates.
I am Secrets.
Caught here as food
For the rushes.
Rooted soul, I cling
Like ivy to a cold stone wall.
But a whisper to those searching
Throughout time turned into past
And dead memories.
Willows weeping,
Casting shadows on my crib
Quilted in riparian,
Visited by butterflies
Loving my nectar and blooms
Of my camouflage
And seclusion.
I am Secrets.
VII. Twain
I feel called by tunes of the river’s lapping.
The steam and the boat on a course
Navigating dry bed and trees uprooted
Looking for the best route
Lit by the moon,
Seared by the sun.
Heaven can wait for me on this river run.
I feel pulled to tears, but none will fall.
Grief, let go.
What is this block –
An iron wall?
Can rust not weaken this ship of ore?
Anguish, wasting tears in horrid torrents,
Masked as laughter, carved as spears.
Courage, let me see the journey’s end,
The rowing done,
The mast stowed
In Halley’s light.
VIII. The Jewel
There is no date of my passing
On this cold stone,
Only my one name.
Those were tough times
When etchings in granite
Cost diamonds.
My name was a jewel
Captured from a life
Gone with the waves of time, as I.
I recall not my arrival or departure
As this jewel,
For it’s been ages.
I have many names now
As I have come and gone
More than once.
For each earthly visit,
We all leave a snippet of our soul,
Waiting for a kind voice
Uttering our names,
And once heard, we gather ourselves up
Like flowers for a new display.
This is how it is.
Names are themselves souls.
So today I will gather myself up
For a new coming.
Thank you, my friend.
IX. The Garden of Ashes
How nice you stopped by here
To sit among us.
Yes, it’s fine. Have a seat.
See the walkway of stones
To this worn bench under the trees
Surrounded by shrubs in this garden of ashes.
We offer you this cool breeze
And this view of a grand city of granite
Sheltered by canopies of
Stately pin oaks with branches like arms
Hugging families bearing flowers.
How nice you stopped by!
We come just for the guests.
This isn’t our abode now.
Not many linger;
We coax each other, yet
There are the stubborn.
Well, we shouldn’t gossip.
They just need time to detach
From their marble statues and earthly beds.
Mischief can be trouble, and
Kids come looking for it.
How some carry on!
They hear stories of the shadows
That perform for the cameras,
We find it entertaining, but
Most souls never linger really;
They like the amenities of the Light.
Even if you bless the stones,
It isn’t needed really.
We only come for your visits.
Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard
Image: Pigeon of Peace
Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver 
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