Category Archives: poetry

Five years later …

or nearly so, I am still sorting through my late husband’s things.

I should be past overpowering sadness by now.

I suppose I am, mostly.

But being a writer and photographer hinders that absolution.

Just when I begin to ascertain peace in my life, words intervene; I write about him and tear those nearly closed wounds open again.

It is as though he died this day, this moment, this hour.

Sadness seeps through the crevices the words carve.

Normal humans move forward, live their lives, make something of themselves from the shattered remains.

I want that, too.

But I’m a writer.

I’m a photographer.

I keep tearing those wounds, just as they’re healing, open.

I love writing about everything and photographing God’s perfect beauty; but it has a price.

I pay dearly through my words for they rip open wounds I’ve desperately attempted to close.

I bleed, painfully, and use photography to heal me.

Each image I capture stitches the brokenness and, simultaneously, pours remembrance on not quite yet healed hurts.

If one is not an artist of some kind, time will ease your pain.

For the rest of us, those with creative pieces in our soul, time simply laughs.

When the words, melodies and images are in our head and heart, there is little time can do.

What it can do is soon undone by what we are.

Sadness is my destiny, peace my hope.

And yet I write.

I photograph.

My hope is great.

My healing never really comes.

I have to ask myself if I would be willing to sacrifice my writing and photography for peace.

No, I answer.

I can live without peace.

To live without words and images would truly and altruistically destroy me.

That which brings me sadness will fuel my hope.

I am a writer and photographer.

Therein lies my hope.

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Beauty in Silence … a poem

Thoughts about thoughts 
the night so long, so dark and dense
quiet in the purest sense
with nothing to dwell on but past tense
Energy used for naught

A day that turns into two then three
An end to that one cannot see
Happens only occasionally
But hurts me just the same

There are no words that can describe
The speed with which the thoughts collide
Before one ends another one slides
Into my faltering mind.

But on the morrow as a new day dawns
And the sunrise, still sleepy, yawns
I know that I am but a pawn
In the game that is known as life.

I don’t consider it a game
With each level more of the same
A wayward thought I cannot tame
This thing that is my life.

But all things, good or bad, must end
And trying diligently to rescind
Words once said in delirium
Cannot be unsaid.

Thoughts unbidden fill my head
When silence is preferred instead
But silence, to me, is all but dead
And yet the beauty lasts.
©Gina Minton Kearns

An abyss …

is an empty, echoing place.

No longer occupied by friends.

Silence where noise would be welcome.

Apart.

Separated.

Blame.

Fault.

Loss.

Tears.

Abyss.

An empty, echoing place.

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At home ..

I walked in, uninvited, as I always do. 

It never occurred to me to knock on my parents’ door.

It is just, well, home.

When I didn’t catch a glimpse of my mom in the kitchen, I called out Hello? Anybody home?

My voice echoed slightly in the emptiness and it startled me, deep within my heart; in a hidden place I never visit.

I walked, knowing I was alone, from room to room.

The Grandfather clock tolled half past the hour.

For which hour it tolled, I can’t be sure.

I looked out the window toward the pond and mountains.

I could see how much of my mom and dad would be lost.

Gone.

Irrevocably changing everything.

The tick-tick-ticking of a clock became louder and inexplicably, Poe’s “Tell Tale Heart” flashed into my thoughts.

Odd, I thought.

I didn’t doubt that they were fine; yet still I felt a shiver.

The oppressive silence.

The unanswered echoes.

The emptiness.

If they don’t outlive me, I will miss my parents when they are gone.

Have I thought of it before?

Mayhaps.

But it only occurred to me today.

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Spinning Circles…

under cover of darkness in daisies growing randomly through the tall meadow grass.

I feel unstoppable; I hear the joy of my own laughter.

A stunning evening sky blossoms above me, twinkling.

The moon echoes my laughter.

The wind sings a night song.

I twinkle and laugh and sing with them.

The fireflies are back.

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I watch …

as the sun spectacularly and rather regally, sat behind ominous clouds while casting brilliant light across an unsuspecting sky.

This is my solace.

I did not photograph it for that is, right now, beyond me.

I look for that part of my mind that hoards rational thought, that part that keeps one foot on the road even when the road is broken.

I no longer know, precicely, who I am.

I am gullible.   Now, then and likely always..

I was struggling to separate reality from fantasy and now I find myself simply trying to tread through unfamiliar water.

The sunset and following moon and stars will, this night, be my comfort.

At least until the fireflies come.

I feel lost and misunderstood.

I don’t expect to feel differently tomorrow, but I am tougher than I look.

I could give up, but that is a coward’s way.

Tomorrow might be different, and if not, mayhaps the day after.

I am beaten, bruised and bleeding; but I’m not broken.

And soon, the fireflies will come.

I await the arrival of fireflies, or as referred to in the South, lightning bugs.

Either way, they will save me.

I await them.

This is a watrebug, not a firefly. Hoping for points for not being an imbecile.

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In a looking glass …

the reflection that looks back does so as though nothing has changed.

As though there is no darkness behind familiar eyes.

As though there is no unfamiliarity in the mundane sameness that take morning into night and back into morning.

The sameness is likely still there, but my perception has skewed it; distorted the memories, played the ultimate trick.

Finding my way was simpler before I lost it.

Mayhaps I will find it again, but if not, if it is gone, how will I ever really know?

The irony of a broken mind.

The photograph below has my copyright, so I know I was there … I just don’t know where there is.

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