Poem · Poetry

A Fine Coat

Grief is a tailor.

Each garment made to suit,

buttons attached each year,

hems altered,

seams made strong by

threads of time,

pockets lined with truth.


Grief takes threads of every color

in and out.

Rage-red borders blend

flecks of gold.

It makes a fine coat

so soft to the touch.


How surprising.

This linen is a close friend

worn to ragged shreds,

worn to the bone.

Death is a companion

with us since birth.


There is no void, only Death,

swaddling us, yet

taking us little by little.

For this we grieve.

One day a babe greeting us

from the womb with tears,

and later, sharing tears for our passing.


We are dressed in Grief,

tailored memories of

laughter and sorrow;

joy and despair;

guilt woven into forgiveness;

grief into love.

Why do we fear?

We are comforted by this lavish coat.


Grief is a tailor

hired at birth

to clothe our lives,

worn to tatters with threads

left to line our souls.


(This poem is a revision of Grief: A Weaver, which I published on WordPress in June 2017.)

©Barbara Harris Leonhard, extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog

Image: Pixabay.com

Audio · Poem · Poetry

New Audio: Dark Matter

To Source and all beyond,

As Source has Source,

Unbound by time or speed of light.

What is my place in this abyss?

Of black holes and dark matter

Wrapping the galactic plane

Like a mother’s blanket for a babe?


What is within me expands and contracts,

Pushing away astral travelers and dodging debris

Floating by from past voyages

And cast away by Jupiter and

Left unanchored to each cell in my being,

Where pain begets pain

From collisions in comets’ midst.


Is Soul dark and dank, like

Empty space, a vacuum sucking

Life from kindred spirit?

Or is Dark Matter a coat

Woven for me to wear

In all time and ages

for many life ways under the stars?


Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: Hubble Space screenshot   https://www.google.com/search



Audio · Poem · Poetry · Voices from the Veil

Grief: A Weaver

What is Grief but Death’s tailor?

Grief is a weaver.

Each garment made to suit,

Buttons attached for each year,

Altered hems,

Seams made strong by

Threads of time,

Pockets lined with truth.

Grief is Death’s weaver,

Taking each thread of any color

In and out;

Back and forth.

Rage-red borders blended

Into blues, golds, lilacs,

Pastel colors,

Interspersed with blackness of soul.

Grief makes a fine coat of silken memories

So soft to the touch,

How surprising.

This linen could be a friend

Worn to ragged shreds,

Worn to the bone as

Death is a companion

With us since birth,

There is no void, only Death,

Swaddling us always, yet

Taking us little by little.

For this we grieve.

One day a babe greeting

From the womb with tears,

The next, tears for our passing.

For Death, we are dressed in Grief,

Woven memories of

Laughter and sorrow;

Joy and despair;

Guilt woven into forgiveness;

Grief into love.

Why do we fear, for

We are comforted by this lavish coat

Through all time.

Grief is Death’s tailor

Hired at birth

To weave our lives,

Worn to tatters with threads

Left to line our souls.




Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: Pixabay.com