“I will make the poems of my body…

I shall then supply myself with the poems of my soul…”

           – Walt Whitman

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Poetry by Cynthia Johnson-Oliver

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Meet Camellia

 

Oppressive snow congeals and waits,

Then falls from petals dressed in white.

As ice unburdens iron gates,

The blossoms keep their spirits light.

 

The harshest season visits earth

And branches bare their souls. What was

The death of many fails to birth

A challenge to her goals because

 

Camellia blooms in winter time,

As juxtaposed as life and cold;

Her triumph, artfully sublime,

Betrays a spirit brave and bold.

 

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This Is My Body

 

Manual blessings offered through

Gentle touches and sweet caresses

To a child, a lover, a mother

Nurturing, tickling, caring

A laying on of disfigured hands

These are my hands

 

Sacramental gestures through

Carrying, reaching, and snuggling

Contracted in the perfect position

To hold and hug and squeeze

Solace in contracted limbs

These are my arms

 

Standing in kitchen sanctuaries

Kneeling at bedside altars

Perfected seat and headrest

Limping, leaning, playing

Strength in unstable thighs

These are my legs

 

This is my body

Blessed, broken, and given

In sacred acts of loving kindness

On foot, wheel, or unsteady dance

Beauty in a disabled body

This is my body