Firefly Night

Lighting a lantern for the long lost ones,
Glowing in the gentle darkness,
now they are here, latecomers to the gathering,
no longer lost but wending their way to me.

Awestruck by their luminescing souls
forcing night’s recession, I spiral my way to them
to touch lightly their power.
I, too, light up the night.

©2010 Frances Ann Osborne

The World of the Healer

The healers have all left our world.
We had them once….healers of the spirit
Nurturers of souls….
Those who blessed us and made our hearts function.
I want to bring them back — but I cannot find them.
Why are there ones who think they do not need the healing care
Of gentle hands and accepting words?
Our hearts are alone…we are afraid…we do not allow ourselves
To speak our inner worries and doubts.
We fear the judgement and intolerance of those whom we love
And the criticism and rejection of those with whom we have no relationship.
If we had a healer, we would have a bridge of hands:
The healer holding my hand and also one of your hands.
In this way, we’d know each other’s thoughts, feelings, sorrows and triumphs.
We would know how not alone we are — we would know that we are never alone.

©2015 Frances Ann Osborne

The Twinkling Memory

Have patience. It will come back — that which is forgotten will return.
You will see it very miniscule, a dot in the horizon.
Move towards it. It moves towards you.
The foreverness of its approach …. it is too slow ….
And not clearly seen ….
What makes this remembrance twinkle in and out?
To be closer is not clearer….
To be further is not more clouded.

©2015 Frances Ann Osborne

Forgotten Roses

If we were to speak again, we would  both reminisce about the things we neglected to do for each other.

We all know what love remembers and what love forgets.

But you and I have not forgotten each other — no, we have not forgotten each other at all

The blood red is the color of our heartbreak, the delicate leaves of our pain, the thorns of our anger.

What is the nature of our forgiveness?

We have not paused to analyse that at all, nor examine it.

All we can notice is the flower that is difficult to grow, hard to preserve, and treasured in its death.

©2015 France Ann Osborne

The Mist’s Door

A mist descended today,
a low lying cloud.
Cold — rainy — sad.
Struggling to wake up, to shed this grogginess that I feel.
Eyes are puffy. Heart is puffy. Feeling the weight of the atmosphere upon me.
Breathing is heavy and slow.
This kind of day is a closed door — locked — the key thrown away.

copyright 2015 Frances Ann Osborne

What is it like to be a writer?

What is it like to be a writer?
To be a writer is akin to dreaming constantly,
to perpetually engage the mist of creativity.
One sees — and is seen — imperfectly.
There is always the hidden darkness that bubbles and ferments
the odd connections.
It is to be misunderstood and mysterious.
One is forever lost going down forest paths,
forgetting to lay the crumbs that lead you back home.

©2015 Frances Ann Osborne