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I passed the long months of waiting by dreaming of you, wondering how I would divide my love again, guessing what your looks would show, thinking of special names for you, preparing for your arrival, feeling self-conscious about the way your growth affected my appearance.

My due date came and went. Each morning thereafter I woke with the same thought, “Maybe today. Maybe by evening, you’ll be here beside me, nursing contentedly.” After several days, labor was induced. Contractions began, increasing in frequency and intensity as the hours passed. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth, don’t push yet, all the while the pains came faster and harder. At last you crowned and I pushed: again, again, again, then it was over. Exhaustion, relief.

You hadn’t cried or sputtered to announce your arrival before you were whisked out of my sight. In my peripheral vision I glimpsed a tiny gray something covered with the yellow curds of afterbirth. I was left to wonder while they ran their tests. The volcano within erupted; fear flowed and burnt like lava.

An eternity later they returned with feeble meaningless words of apology. Then I saw your frailness in the glaring light and knew my love and labor had been fruitless: I had delivered but my dream was stillborn. Friends and family were sympathetic, supported, but disconcerted. What words of comfort could they, or anyone, give?

I lay awake at night, unable to avoid the questions which ask themselves over and over again: Was it just not meant to be? Why? Was I being punished? Was I unworthy? I only wanted to love and devote myself to you, but my dream did not come true – Why?

I am glad for what little time we had, grateful for the hopes you inspired, but disappointed. I shared your life for only a few months – I wanted years. I must go on without you, trusting time to heal as it passes. Until then, I fight the rest I need, not daring to sleep, afraid of dreaming again.

By Kerry Vincent (1987), published in various magazines/newspapers

   My spirit stone is a small, round, tan stone with a wolfhead carved on one side.  (My spirit animal is coyote, so I pretend the wolf is a coyote.  My boundaries are fuzzy anyway.)  I pulled the stone out and laid it against my bruised palm – it was nice and cool and soothed the burning and stinging some.  It was then I noticed the strange writing on the uncarved side of the stone.  “Now what kind of rune is that?” I wondered.  Then I turned the stone 90 degrees and read “OK”.  I vaguely remember writing “OK” on the rock with a permanent marker, a long time ago.  I had given myself the gift of “OK” – my homemade mantra came back to me:  “I am OK, I will be OK, things change, but everything will be OK, someday.”

   What a nice gift I’d given myself – free of charge – and how nice to re-discover it again, when I really needed it. 

The dryad sings her song in the breeze,

Pure, sweet, Nature’s canticle,

Praising the sun and the moon,

Thankful for the stars she wears in her hair,

And the deep sweet water she sips from the earth.

She raises her branches to the heavens,

Her trunk planted firmly in the ground,

Her roots growing dense and tangled below.

Strong, sturdy, well-balanced,

She is home to birds and bees and butterflies,

Squirrels and insects and creeping things.

The dryad and her tree offer food for many,

And shade for all.

She wears a cloak of stillness,

Watching busy lives come and go.

She blesses each of the little leaves,

That join together to make this mighty tree.

The dryad cherishes the soil that gives her life,

Growing each day one day at a time,

Taller, wider, ring by ring.

She sings a soft song of silence,

Of giving and taking for the good of all,

Of things that were and are and may yet be,

Verses heard only by angels above and earthworms below

And those who take time to sit under a tree and listen.

By Kerry Vincent  (c) 2010

Good poems are like a full roll of duct tape –
Sturdy, strong, hardworking, flexible, resistant to tearing.
Good poems, like duct tape,
Take two or more different thoughts
And stick them together good and tight,
So that the ideas touch and meet and face each other,
A durable, long-lasting union, hard to pull apart.
Good poems, like duct tape,
Should be unrolled slowly, carefully,
Not twisted or twirled or dropped.
Goods poems, like duct tape,
Can save the world!
…Well, almost…
But I’m not too worried about Armageddon –
I’ve got my pens, my journals, and good poems,
— The sticky duct tape of my soul —
To put me back together again if I fall apart.

By Kerry Vincent © 2010

For rushing through things, not really listening,

Hurrying and scurrying through my busy day,

Missing the important moments:

 The holy sunlight on those purple petunias,

 The taste of grace in my cup of black tea,

A baby’s toothless smile.

     I forgive myself for practical sins,

For taking today for granted,

For forgetting that tomorrow is never guaranteed,

For trying to do it all alone, without asking for help,

When it would help someone else to let them help me.

     I forgive myself for practical sins,

For using store-bought and pre-packaged,

When I know I could fix better, fresher, homemade myself.

The cost of convenience is high,

Makes me forget to use my own talents and skills.

     I forgive myself for practical sins,

For being full of shouldas, wouldas, and couldas.

I will do what I can, when I can,

And try not to worry so much about it when I can’t.

This world already has the complete collector’s set

Of shames and pains and regrets –

No need for me to add mine to the heap.

     I forgive myself for practical sins,

Mostly, I will try, each day, to forgive myself for

being human.

I am my own worst enemy most of the time,

But I could be my own best friend.

I will try to find the elusive blessed balance.

     Please let me be a lifelong student of practical kindness,

To myself, and to others,

Beginning with the Introductory Course:

“Forgiveness of Me”,

The pre-requisite for “Forgiving Others”,

“Listening Skills”, “Advanced Caring”, and

“Joy, and Peace through Wholeness and Love”.

Amen.

by Kerry Vincent (c) 2010

You really did make a difference, you know. St. Louis Effort for AIDS has come so far in 25 years. From its beginning, just a few people meeting together in an apartment, to being a major HIV-AIDS service organization, recognized with official funding and grants, but more importantly, by the lives it touched, and touches still. Dining Out for Life is an annual event, often copied, never equaled.
You would have loved it, Jerry. We had a picnic at the World’s Fair Pavilion in Forest Park to celebrate 25 years of helping hands, 25 years of St. Louis Effort for AIDS. We were all together, listening to Fruit Jam play light jazz, eating a catered lunch, feeling the summer breezes, clients and case workers and executive directors. And you were there, too. They had some Names Quilt Panels laid out. Not the one I made for you, but other people who passed on after complications from HIV-AIDS. Strangers came up and had a look, to see what was going on – so there was educational value, and I know that was always so near and dear to your heart.
It was a nice Sunday afternoon in Forest Park, seeing old friends, getting caught up. Missing other friends, like you, like Dana, Gil, and Jef, and so many dear people I met at the Sharing Center. Those Friday night socials had an impact on me, my daughter, her friends. We were volunteers, but we received more than we gave. You taught us to honor life, no matter what the circumstances, because it is short and dear and we only get one chance. You preached keeping a sense of humor, even though you were infected, lonely, poor – and you practiced what you preached. We laughed so much then. Today’s tears are the price of those good times we shared – they are worth the cost.
Your physical body is gone, but your spirit is still with us, teaching, training, leading, guiding, encouraging, helping still. I hear your voice in the crowd’s conversations. I hear your laughter in the wind. Your love is in my heart, and your hope is in my hands.

Other times they are a gentle sprinkle, light and refreshing.

Then comes a storm of memories moving in, rumbling and grumbling and striking with lightening, splitting the sky with a white dagger, thunderclaps overhead, the sky the black bowl of a big base drum, no tinkling triangle or clinking windchimes now.

Some days the memories rain down steady, dreary, constant, on and on, boring and oppressive and without any let up in sight.

Now and then there’s a refreshing rain of good times remembered, followed by sparkling pavement and a fresh scent of renewal.

Every summer there’s a long dry spell, a draught, the grass and leaves curling and turning brown, and people ask each other, “Think it will rain today?” “Not today. Maybe tomorrow.”

Then the skies darken and the clouds gather and the rain soaks the earth, like a sudden memory that will not go away.

And yet, somehow, even that storm passes, and you come in out of the rain, to where it is dry, and bright, and safe, and warm.

By Kerry Ellen © 2010