The Bench

There is a bench I keep returning to,
not because it is beautiful, though it is.
Because, it is comfortable and true,
it welcomes me every time I visit.

I return because it never asks a thing,
it does not hurry my thoughts away,
or tell me to have the answers I should bring,
it simply waits for what I have to say.

Some days I bring laughter to this space,
which dances lightly through the leaves,
on other days, it simply gives me grace,
some days I arrive with what a heart receives.

There are days I come carrying questions here,
too heavy for a weary soul to keep holding,
it understands my doubt and all my fear,
without asking why or what is unfolding.

Other days I bring nothing at all to show,
except a weary heart that needs to rest,
and a cold cup of coffee as the shadows grow,
it understands, and gives its quiet best.

The bench never complains or turns away,
it has watched seasons gently teach my mind,
that not everything unfolds in just a day,
it measures time of a completely different kind.

It has seen tears that fell upon the wood,
that later grew and became quiet understanding,
it has heard silence that was fully understood,
saying more than words were ever demanding.

Sometimes I sit quietly looking ahead,
wondering where the path will choose to lead,
sometimes I turn around and look instead,
and notice how far I’ve come indeed.

And often, without quite knowing when,
or how the heavy burdens slipped away,
I stand upon my feet to walk again…
Lighter than when I arrived today.

Perhaps that is what a good bench is for,
not a place that changes your whole life,
but a place that quietly opens up a door,
to remind you that you can pause the strife.

While life continues spinning all around,
tomorrow, or next week, or years from now,
it will still be waiting on this ground,
to offer you its shelter and to bow.

Waiting though not to keep me from the journey’s start,
but to help me find the strength to endure.
It is a resting place within my heart…
Where life can be more secure.

🌹

Thank you for reading and for being part of this quiet corner of the world. If you find value in these posts, please consider a free or paid subscription. It’s a gentle way to support the heart of this work and ensure we stay connected. Until next time, be well.

Subscribe now

We hide the cracks and ignore the pain,
limping through days in a quiet rain,
carrying fragments of who we were,
in a shattered glass and a hollow blur.

But what if the broken is sacred too?
Not meant for the bin, but to start anew,
to be gathered up with a tender hand,
and placed where the golden spirit can stand.

It takes real time to find the grace,
to honour the marks upon the face,
for healing isn’t a return to the start,
but the slow, golden binding of the heart.

The timing is yours; the world must wait,
while you mend the pieces and settle the fate,
for the gold in the break is the proof of the soul,
where the courage to stay is what makes us whole.

~

Thank you for reading and for being part of this quiet corner of the world. If you find value in these posts, please consider a free or paid subscription. It’s a gentle way to support the heart of this work and ensure we stay connected. Until next time, be well.

Subscribe now

Trust is not a title, nor a name we simply wear,
it isn’t found in legal script or “stiff” and hollow prayer.
It’s a fundamental tether, a bond of gold and light,
that expects a steady honesty and walking in the right.

We placed our hope in silence, we honoured every tie,
we permitted and we waited, while the truth became a lie.
For trust is not a person - it is the fruit of what they do,
and the harvest you have gathered is a bitter, broken view.

You took the keys of kindness, and you turned them in the lock,
you ignored the family’s worry, and the family’s steady knock.
You flaunted every promise, you dishonoured every grace,
and left a “shameless” shadow in a mother’s sacred space.

One person. One mother. One life you’ve tried to own,
while she is left to suffer in a house you’ve made a throne.
But your untrustworthiness is a map that everyone can see,
The muddle of your making is now a legal legacy.

Our confidence is dashed, the thread is torn and frayed,
by the twisted path you’ve chosen and the games that you have played.
But we stand in the integrity of the honesty and of the truth,
to reclaim the stolen dignity of a mother’s fading youth.

For though you’ve torn the bond apart and scattered hope like dust.
You cannot hide the hollow heart that’s emptied out its trust.

BJ

To me writing is the best form of therapy. It consoles, it lightens and it brings a peace to me during tough times.

Thank you for sharing this space with me. I appreciate your readership. Please subscribe or become a paid member. Either way, I write because somewhere someone will take my words as balm for a trying time in their life.

There are moments when life does not break, but bends.
Where what we feel is not clear or singular, but scattered —
held in fragments we do not always recognise.

And yet, in that bending, something is revealed.

Refractions of Light

Sunlight bends,
slips through the edge of a raindrop,
splits into a spectrum
that wasn’t there before,
that was always waiting
in the quiet folds of air and water.

Life is much the same.
Moments fracture, choices bend,
emotions scatter like fractured light,
and we see ourselves
in shards and colours
we never knew existed.

A word, a glance, a memory -
they touch the surface of the mind
and refract, reflect, disperse.
Each nuance shows a different face:
joy and sorrow, hope and regret,
all coexisting in fragile harmony.

A prism forms in quiet thought,
splitting a single beam into many truths.
Each fragment dances - vivid, fleeting, alive -
and in its scattering,
we glimpse ourselves anew,
recognising the colours
we didn’t know were ours to hold.

We cannot hold it whole.
We can only watch it bend,
follow the curves and angles,
lean into the brilliance of what’s revealed,
and, if we are lucky,

see beauty
in the frays,
in the bends,
in scattered light
that tells us we are alive.

If this piece found something in you, there are more reflections like it waiting quietly.

You’re always welcome here.
And if you feel drawn to stay a little longer, a paid subscription helps me continue writing and sharing these moments.

Subscribe now