The broken wolf

The wolf at my door lay splintered and broken
 No more howling at wooden moons.
Why fix that? Why mend what bit and choked me?
I no longer need golden crosses and silver spoons.

Lot's wife once salted my tears, stuck and frozen
tributes to grief, stinging open wounds.
Why hold that? Why cling as if I was pain's chosen
child, a wild mourner singing melancholy tunes

over and over and over, being both torch and song
hiding my light behind heavy death masks
Why wear that? Why the ashes and sackcloth
when the time for grief has long since past?

And so Kali came, disguised in storm and wind
ripping off masks, breaking wolves, melting ice,
leaving me naked, bareboned and awakened
I was loved although chastised

by a higher power, her beauty direct. Strong.
Pennies in a plaster shrine glazed in water
welcome new hope, change immediate. Birdsong
heralds the new love. Venus I am your daughter.

good grief or bad?

Grieving is a serious business, it's been over a year since my
ex husband ran off with his ex wife. (And it's humiliating
to mourn a such a cliched scenario.)

It's been a short while since my rebounder relationship went bung.
(Another womanizer- another cliched con).

The whole year has been marked with betrayals and losses.
You can tell when you've got it bad when you're reading the book
of Job thinkin' "what's he complainin about....?"

But there comes the time when you can't help but think,
"when am I going to get over this?" You want to be able to
let mates and family know: "scuse me but I am temporarily
insane while I am in mourning"...

You can tell your friends and those who love you are worried about
you too. So you try to do the smiley Walmart greeting face...but..
it's fake. It's dishonest. You end up feeling like a kid at a sports event
who fumbles the ball while his family are watching.

It's a self centered damned business too. I keep trying to pop
the balloons at my own pity party, my thoughts become environmentally
unfriendly recyclers, and my heart feels like a cheese grater- riddled with
holes and crumbs of old crusty love.

I keep stepping on my own self esteem.

I understand that grief is necessary. I am allowing myself
to fully feel, (without the numbing agents I used to employ:
vodka and red wine), but just when does bad grief become good?

Where are the jokes in all of this???