Poetry 1


Every cell within me vibrates,
quaking to a beat of its own creation,
jangling, rattling, pounding, sparking, throbbing, aching -
Looking at me, you may not see those disruptions.
You can not know how it feels to live each day
fully cognizant that it is on borrowed time
as those who do not feel such vibrant discord can forget.

You can not know what it means
to constantly have to deny your children
because you lack the stamina, energy, capacity
or to start a task only to have to stop in mid-stream
because your energy fails . . .
or to be forced to accept the services of others
because you can not do it yourself.
Feeling humbled, ashamed, embarrassed,
needing to strip yourself of pride
because it no longer has a place in your life.

Within this ravaged body and damaged mind
a soul resides – a gift from the Creator
with a purpose to fulfill.
I may be damaged, but I am not destroyed.
I am not sure of my destiny
or how I am going to get there,
but those decisions are mine to make.
I may ask for your input, but it is still my life to live.

I may rage against my limitations at times
but they force me to examine my life strategies,
to distill my needs and wants to their essences
to extract what is imperative and let go the rest.
It is hard work, and I do not have the luxury
of putting it off because I need to face my challenges
and not retreat from life.

I have gained much from those who were not “the norm” -
and my life has become a tapestry filled with beautiful colors,
unusual patterns, and grand diversity.
I was given the burden and gift of my disabilities.
The Creator knows why I was chosen to carry this burden.
I can rage against it or accept it -
the path I tread is narrower, less used,
full of bumps, roots that trip, holes to fall in . . .
but I choose to believe that the roughest paths
are often closest to the Creator,
and as they are not crowded by others,
you can revel in the beauty that is close at hand.
I need to remember that when the way is dark -
to sustain me until again I reach the light.

So as your eyes slide across my face,
trying to appear not to see what is so obviously there,
embarrassed by what meet your eyes,
Stop – have the integrity to meet me on my terms,
to open your mind to the possibilities fo my reality,
to understand I had no choice in the creation of my disability,
but I do have a choice in how live with it,
and it is My choice, not yours to make.

Please, welcome me into your heart.
Try to place yourself within my skin for just a moment.
The way I approach my life may be radically different
than how you live yours -
the Creator has blessed us with infinite choices,
a world of wonderful people,
and a wealth of role models to learn from.
I welcome you to walk beside me along my path -
in kinship and fellowship
to see first hand the beauty within each soul.

Final Parting

Looking back from this not so distant future,
the bed and its occupants glow -
all anger, distrust, and hurt gone -
gentle voices, soft laughter and tears mingle freely,
washing away old animosities at this time of parting.

In the face of the task -
to ease a frail, overused body
to relinquish its claim on the radiant soul within . . .
all else fades.

Caught up in the normalcy of daily living,
time rushes past and we fail to hear
the heart’s true message from one to another
so a mountain of resentments build bunkers around the heart,
preparing for battle.

It is only in this parting, so full of pain and sorrow,
such pettiness can be lifted.
His life was dedicated to healing hearts -
and in his final hours he defied expectations
and created a surcease of the soul’s angst
intertwining embittered hearts and bringing peace.

Pandora’s Box

Tucked in the deep closet reaches
Of my tundra frozen heart,
in a carefully crafted chest,
whose decorations are singular to me alone
are the treasures of my life –
lockets of hair from my children’s first cuts,
the laughter lines and soul-drenched green eyes
of the man I loved so much before we both changed,
the long awaited apology relinquished
from my mother in a moment of despair,
the fur of my dog’s neck and his wet kisses
when he knows my heart is breaking,
the memory of crisp Autumn air
as I lie on Beech Rock,
my hands running over the pink quartz and silver mica
as I watch jewel toned leaves
lazily dance their way down
to skim the water’s surface
while golden rays shine back at themselves
along the reservoir,
the evocative, mysterious wonder of mists
curling to the sky on winter’s breath,
one night traveling with a best friend
when twelve owls came alongside the car and flew,
a rock shaped like a perfect heart
a Mendoccino night of shooting stars
As waves crash against the headlands,
the never-ending songs my senile father sang –
tll ending with “God Bless America”
and his emphatic “You Are Beautiful!”
which while said to everyone
still seemed just for me,
the golden night we said goodbye to that wonderful man,
our lives re-knitting together as a family
as he would have wanted it,
the hug my daughter gave which
for that one moment
kept me still on this earth,
the poem my son wrote
saying I held the keys to his heart,
keeping him safe,
waking from a drug-induced coma
ashamed, bewildered, but alive,
given the reprieve I so desperately needed.

The Box has long been gathering dust –
forgotten, devalued . . .
lost in the sometimes overwhelming chaos,
often joyously beautiful moments
of this life I’ve been given.
Perhaps the time has come to remember
and be grateful . . .

Pieces of Me

Giving just a bit more, just a bit more,
always emptying, never replenishing,
I’ve given so much of myself
I have forgotten who I was to begin with.
I can no longer fit the pieces together -
too many are frayed, jagged,
others imperfect recreations of a faulty mind
and whole sections gone, vanished, black holes
where vital life force once flowed.
When I look in the mirror now,
I keep expecting a missing nose,
a abyss in my throat,
my heart gone for sure . . .
feathered away in fragments.

When, as a child, I lay in the night’s grass,
staring up at the Milky Way . . .
there were so many stars – eons of them -
a wide, white swath cut through the dark,
bringing hope in silver rays.
Somehow the stars have faded now -
There are fewer, none so bright . . .
There is so much more night in my life,
my body bruised from bumping into the unseen
and unimaginable.

I should have been more selfish,
holding onto the pieces of me,
because one woman’s treasures
is another person’s garbage.
My heart is likely ended up
a cast-off in some musty attic,
trapped in the dark,
along with the night’s stars.

A Child’s Perspective

Daddy rages, Mommy cries,
“What about me?”
the little child sighs.

No home for my own
yet I have two.
Never alone
but always lonely.
Mourning for one
while with the other.
Never enjoying
without feeling guilt.

They have their spaces.
Their objects surround them,
yet I don’t remember
where my teddy tear is.
Is it here
or there?

To the winter of my soul I come,
encircling me in quixotic rhythms unknown
to one as humble as I.
To the edge of the abyss
yawning deep before my trembling toes
as they inch closer and closer
to its inky depths.
Into the moment a whisper floats,
“Draw back. Remember
your life is not yours to own . . .
soon, so soon, comes spring,
rebirth the inevitable answer
to destruction
but hold fast the memory
of those moments on the precipice
as reminders of the cycle,
when next your toes shall dangle
at the edge of the abyss
in the winter of your soul.”

I never knew her

I never had the chance
to know her, to feel her,
to drink in her sweet fragrance,
the one which was hers alone to own.
I was too young and her song
had been stilled long before I became aware.
Yet my uncle cried when, as a young woman,
he saw me with long tresses tied in a braid,
“your air is hers, you look so much like her”
and gently held my hand as his eyes misted in memory.
Later still I was told, forever and again,
how much I was like her,
how I carried her essence within me,
and I trembled . . .
for the hand that stilled her breath
was her husband’s,
and well I knew the bite a lover can make,
and within my core, my soul spinnings,
my hand reached out through the misty years
to join hers, to listen to the message
she needed to pass down, and
in the softest of whispers she murmured,
“Leave him, my dear – learn from my shattered skull,
for even unbroken, it was no more that tattered pieces,
hear from the ear ripped from my head,
speak words of freedom with teeth
knocked from my mouth – yes, you may be as I was
but yet you are more, and the power I denied myself
is the legacy I pass down to you,
so no child of ours will ever again
go homeless, unloved, misunderstood,
so no child will be stooped with premature age
carrying raw bruises from sharp words and fists -
my daughter, on my whispered words of freedom, fly.”


We were a family once
of a common voice, singing
in strains of harmony
of the dreams we shared,
looking in the mirror as one,
a unit, a single entity . . .
but as in Babylon of old
the mirror cracked
into a multitude of shards,
a prism of reflections,
each with its own viewpoint,
an eschewing of the old form
into divergent languages,
discordant rhythms singing songs
in strident voices,
none hearing the cadence, the melody
the others were using,
the shards singing with deaf ears,
alone, yet still holding onto
the frame which once held the unit,
not knowing how to separate
a cacophony of noise
echoing into the vast waste
of nothingness . . .

Poetry 1


Joined February 2008

  • Artist

Artist's Description

A small collection of poems

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