Poetry

My mother and I 
had storms between us 
in my youth.
Not the peaceful rumbles and soft
pitter patter 
of raindrops
on rooftops,
we were angry flashes 
of blinding light,
and the deafening SLAM
of God’s fist against the ground.
The rains that drenched us,
flooding out all possibilities 
of reconciliation.
But as time settled over us,
the tranquility rose between us, 
like the quiet steam
of the pavement,
after a storm.
And as it made way for sunshine
breaking through the clouds,
and the joyful songs
of birds, reemerging,
I got to know two new women:
myself,
and the woman my mom had become. 

Time has a way
of the sneaking senescence 
of our parents,
and the maturing of their children.
As we see our futures
played out before us, 
getting glimpses of what lay
on the road ahead,
The potholes, detours, 
and storms in the distance. 
As we watch our 
mothers, fathers, 
withering, frail,
vulnerable.
Needing us as much
as we once needed them,
they become as those 
first entering this world,
as they ease their way out. 

I am grateful for the years
of calm skies between us 
that led me to the moment 
when I gently cradled her hand, 
assisting the delicate transition of life
just as she once cradled me, 
and aided me with mine.

I sat by her side
and reassured her resting spirit 
of the beautiful journey
of everlasting sunny skies 
that lay ahead.
As my mother exited this world
and the storms which it births, with
one
fleeting
final
breath.

My eyes are very green today

And they reminded me of you

The way they billow in like smoke

And lie about the truth

 

Truth is…

I’ve written just as many poems

In your absence

As I did when we first met

 

They were exciting then

Adventurous

Telling tales

Of hikes in snow

 

And resting there, by waterfalls

 

And all that I have written now

Is about the way time has shifted silently

In the days since you’ve been gone

How the aching in my hollow chest

Is working its way out

Through the surface of my skin

 

And today…

My eyes are just as green

As the path that I refused to travel down

On our way that day

To our swimming hole

That I’ll never get to swim

 

When really, they should be gray

Like the days have felt

Without the color seeping in

And my eyes smiling shut

In the blinding brilliance

Of your love

I would’ve died

a thousand times over

if it had been up to me.

Every time my heart broke

or doors closed

or I glimpsed my reality

with honest eyes.

It seems no matter

how hard I sleep

it never is enough.

Nightmares that I can’t recall

always keep me up,

or wake me just before

the wave of peace

sweeps me into eternal rest.

I’ve felt the calmness

of breathing in the warmth

of God,

like a beautiful sigh.

And I had it twice

in one night.

I’ve had the privilege

of being held by Him

without the

needing to leave this life.

But most days…

He leaves it to me

to find this comfort

on my own.

Without the assistance

of beds and pillows,

the arms of lovers,

celestial blankets

to wrap me in the affection

that always eases my soul.

I walk alone.

Even as He neighbors me closely

in silence.

I’ve no maps

or guides

to compass this journey

and I know

that my north star must always be

the confidence of a foundation

in the knowledge that

I am one of the few

and perhaps

even the only soul

that has been entrusted

with the gift

of navigating this voyage

on my own.

 

I’ve been going back and reading old posts, which I never do. My mind has been revisiting the things I used to feel, and I happened to be led there. It might not be a good idea, but it is a good reminder from where I came. I’ve been reading a lot of my posts about suicide, and my attempts. One, which I wrote on the anniversary of one of my attempts, I intended on adding another poem to, but it seems I did not. So, I want to add it now.

**********

The Poem I Did Not Write

I see my life in seasons

unfolding behind me

like landscapes:

rolling hills with greenery,

the brilliant colors of trees in fall,

unexpected snow,

or sunsets over water

in my rearview mirror as I drive away,

and it is gone.

I revisit these places

that once were home.

Each previous address.

The walls, they do speak.

The men that came and went;

The labor it takes to remove the smell

of vomit-drenched carpet;

The ghosts that waved good-bye

when it wasn’t my time.

The echoing of sobs.

 

I am making this journey in solitude,

but aren’t we all?

At the end of the day,

it is only ourselves

and God.

And those who drop in for a visit

once in a while.

 

I’ve spent years wondering

if my wails will rattle these walls

long after I am gone.

Will I haunt this place

like it still haunts me?

 

When I was 12, I wrote a poem

in which I stated

“I was meant to die by my own hand.”

I have not forgotten the line,

it rings loudly in my mind

like a catchy tune

that you cannot shake.

And the only way to ease the urge

is to listen to it

one more time.

 

When I was 31,

a medium told me

that I would not wed,

and those words too,

they will not leave me,

though everyone else has.

 

I never realized until now

That each morning is the clean slate

I was searching for

for years.

That each sunrise is my chance to try again.

Each face I meet, I memorize

inside my heart,

appreciating its beauty,

savoring its presence

before it is gone.

Though I am not sure

whether the recalling

either harms or heals.

 

And this is where I’ve found myself

stopped along the road.

The joy, my God,

is warmth

and light.

It is infectious.

Vibrant and healing!

And I come alive.

It soothes me in the waiting.

It holds me in the dark.

My loveliest companion.

 

And even so,

I still have times

when I can hear the darkness whisper,

calling me back.

And despite my knowing

how deeply it aches

I find myself tempted

to revisit it as well.

 

 

 

…It is a cacophony.

 

How to ruin a relationship:

Sleep with them.

 

How to scare someone away:

Tell them you love them.

 

Things I wish I could say:

I love you.

 

Things I wish I could stop saying:

I love you.

 

How to connect:

Take a chance.

 

How to have a fulfilling life:

Connect.

 

Want to become disillusioned with love?

Watch me.

I’ll show you.

 

*

The men I’ve loved have allowed me

to rely on no one but myself.

You can bare your soul, you know

at the distance of an arm’s length.

It is possible to bask

in the warmth of an embrace, and yet

walk away feeling even more alone.

And yes, I’ve known connection

and heartache

and there are many who have glimpsed

the intricacies of this spirit.

(a vast kaleidoscope of pale purples,

flowing, constantly in motion)

And I too, having seen their own.

It is possible to dive into the pool of love

for a brisk swim

and struggle to stay above waves

that you, yourself, have made.

And it is also true that you can

drown there,

and when dragged out, revive,

still feeling refreshed from the water

left rolling off your skin.

(there is an incredible majesty

it the moment before you succumb,

like dusk has just begun to break)

Reminiscing of your brushes with death

while drying your skin

with towel swipes.

 

I know there are times

when I stare off into the distance

and it is hard to say whether I am recalling

love or loss.

The gut-wrenching kick of solace?

Or strolling down the short path

of memory lane, that I even dare revisit.

 

There are moments in the silence

when I can still feel the touch

of a ghostly fingertip

against my surface of my skin.

And I am forced to open my eyes to the darkness

despite my fear that

I’ll see something standing there

before me.

Finding myself then,

startled by the void instead.

 

 

You say things to me

Without realizing it

When I feel your heartbeat

Sync with mine

Or the moment your face freezes

And I can feel your heart sink

And the squeak

Of endless turning wheels

Inside your head

And we cannot escape

This carnival ride

There is no way to leave

Until it has come to a complete stop

But there’s a good thing

About these rides

And it is

That they are over quickly

Before it is on to the next

So close your eyes

Feel the swish

Of wind against your face

Release

That thing

That you’re holding onto for dear life

You are safe here.

Buckled in.

Just enjoy

The sensation of flying

Because

We are not birds

We do not have wings

And this is the closest

That we will ever get

To tasting freedom

When I was a child

my sister was jealous

of my ability to color

inside the lines.

It was the only arena

in which my capacity

outranked her own.

My compulsive attention to detail started there.

The irony of this is not lost on me.

My life has been lived

unabashedly,

unapologetically

unconcerned with

staying inside of lines.

I have been bound behind them,

constrained by myself

or others,

but I can never manage to stay for very long.

My wanderlust has launched me

into galaxies,

or great escapes,

or entirely different realms.

Those that even I

had never dared dream.

I have been like an angry mass

of protesters

who cannot be contained.

Not by tear gas,

or fire hoses,

or any aggressive show of force.

Or a child

who still finds herself

scribbling in crayon

on the walls,

stick figures

and illustrations of stories

that only I can understand.

The wildfire

raging behind my eyes

has always been

entirely too ferocious,

and has always spread

entirely too quickly

to ever be extinguished.

And I have found that life,

real life,

can only be experienced

outside of these lines

that are drawn for us,

or those we sometimes manage

to draw for ourselves.

There dwells the buttery richness

hidden in flaky layers

of a fresh croissant,

drizzled in the decedance

of chocolate or honey.

There dwells the freedom

we seek within our slavery,

where the weight of our chains disappears,

and we can finally

run, unfettered.

No, I was not born

to be bridled,

or color inside the lines.

This earth needs me

writing rampantly,

so that I may share my tales

of life untamed.

The beauty of the risk

in living unrestrained.

In the image of God,

with an inability to be fathomed

or forgotten.

Endlessly celestial and

too colossal for a cubicle,

but simultaneously

exquisitely ethereal.

Both yearning for the touch of others

and yet,

too delicate and vast to be held.

This is the first rap song I learned all the words to.  I was 13.

This isn’t the original version of the music video, but I like this edit.  Enjoy!

C U When U Get There

by Coolio

Somehow I rise above my problems and remain here.
Yeah, and I hope the picture painted clear:
If you heart filled with faith then you can’t fear
Wonder how I’ve faced years and I’m still chillin?
Easy, let go and let God deal with it.

~ T.I.