Category: Survival

Away From the Light

Photo by Stephanie Klepacki on Unsplash

Let me go 
into the mountain’s depths
away from the light.
The sky holds nothing.
Neither does the sea.
Only the rock, the granite,
the depths of mountain
provides for me.
The mountain carries 
me down and away,
away from this light,
protecting all it covers
as I cover myself
with my grandfather’s coal dust.
I will carry this canary
with me, if you think I must,
as I travel deeper,
ever deeper,
into the mountain.

Seeking

image courtesy of WP library 
I fled from days

of standing under your patchwork roof

offering no protection from the rain,

least of all my own rain pouring out of me,

threatening always to drown in its leave taking.



So I learned to float, flowing along the curves

others presented in my efforts to find

time, love, home, 

the back roads where berry bushes 

grow in abundance.

Yet I never tasted,

never picked any berries,

fresh off the branches.

Instead, I always found

the snakes hidden, lying in wait

beneath the berry bushes,

for the seeking,

and I, always bitten,

never learned my lessons

of serpents who lay in wait,

or the lessons of Eve,

I still sought,

in spite of the venom,

in spite of the bites—



I found the rains pouring out of me

once again

to travel on 

seeking

Freed

Image courtesy of http://www.allthatsinteresting.com
As a child,

I survived the explosion of dreams

that left hot greasy remnants

dripping down the four-inch squares

of avocado green ceramic tiles,

marring their mirror like shine.



As a grown woman,

I survived the eruption of dreams

that poured down an encasement of hot ash

over all of life’s plans in the moment of diagnosis,

leaving monumental statues of grief.



Thus, I chose to live

where silence drones,

a rumble in the ears.

Nothing left--

a hole, a void

made by echoes

of desires held long ago.



So, I have taken a corn broom

to dance with me

in time to music

only I can hear

to sweep away the dust, the cobwebs,

the fuss of other’s opinions and ideas

of me, my doings, my words.

Yes, from my words,

I shake loose all the years of dust,

the years of ash, the years of grease.

All words, oh, so many words

I never loosed upon the air

to float free upon the winds,

tumbling away, up, around,

then returning once more

to spring up as wildflowers

when things turn to green.



I begin to loose them now,

freed to scatter where they will,

root, spring up where they

find a place to rest.

Why I Have Always Wanted to Learn the Art of the Potter’s Wheel

Image courtesy of FireGallery.com
clay slapped on the wheel
shaped from spinning motion with
the control of hands

form, substance given
before the heat of the kiln
then give years of care

secured from breaking
ends in sharp edged shards broken:
mosaic in form

Small Jars of Jam

image courtesy of https://anitalianinmykitchen.com/apricot-jam/
Your lies hang,

apricots swaying 

in the summer air

from the tree 

of your despair.

You pick the ripest apricots

to make jam

you ladle into small jars,

gifting them to friends 

who smile softly,

touched you think of them

by gifting your small jars of jam

made from the apricots 

you pick from the tree 

of all your despair 

denied.

Plantings

Image courtesy of https://www.mutualart.com/Artwork/Green-grapes-on-the-vine-with-morning-gl/0F474D245DD85FB8
I tire of seeing memes about having a positive attitude and choosing one’s feelings plastered
social media.  It is no surprise our young people are in the midst of a mental health crisis when constantly bombarded with messages telling them, in essence, “The only reason you are sad is because you are making the choice to be sad,” or, (one of my favorites for sabotaging anyone’s self esteem) “You have a choice to make your day wonderful or not.” While such simplistic messages are well meaning, I believe they are sometimes extremely toxic.  After all, what if your parent died on that day? Did you make the choice to have a horrible day?  What if you go home to a toxic abusive environment? How can you choose to make your day wonderful? So before reposting those wonderful positive messages on social media, let’s all take a step back and think about what we are really saying to someone who may be going through something or in an environment where there is no choice in the matter but to feel what he or she feels. Let’s send messages that say it’s okay to feel what you feel and acknowledge it and to take time to feel it all,so something can be gained from it—a lesson, a positive action taken, whatever it may be, so we know our suffering was not for naught. Hence, this piece.

I gathered my despair,

my tears, my losses, all my grief.

Sat with each,

held them close,

let them dry,

waiting for spring.

 

When the ground warms,

softening, ready for tilling,

I will plant my despair,

sow my tears,

plough rows for my losses,

dig a hole deep enough to hold all my grief.

 

In the turning of time,

from the shrubs of my despair,

I will snip flowers and herbs

for healing others.

From the vines of my tears,

I will pluck the fruits and vegetables

to pile upon the table for all who need.

From the fields of my losses,

I will reap the harvest grain

to store for when a time of need arrives.

Finally, from the tree of all I grieve.

I will pick the sweetest fruit

of memory.

 

 

Bandaged, She Walks

image courtesy of drnimaplasticsurgery.com

Bandaged, gauze covered, blanketed--

now--



She never thought of bandages

until one wound oozed infection,

a malevolent fluid.



Thus, she learned of cleansing wounds,

bandaging them for protection,

changing dressings.



Twice, she thought her wound healed, scarred over,

rejoicing, removed her bandage.

Twice, her scar split open, infection returning.



Resigned, resolving to keep her bandage always,

Refreshed daily, keeping infection at bay.

https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/category/weekend-writing-prompt/

No Lexicon

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/20204174/posts/3955628331

There exists no lexicon

For the echoes of emptiness here–

Where the azaleas bloom

Purple, pink, and white,

While dusty looking

Lavender sends up

Multiple spikes,

As roses yield up

Open, thirsting mouths

To the sky.

Though the soil here

Nourishes color and green

Growing things,

While life appears

Apparently abundant,

Although neighbors smile and wave,

The soil remains absent of truth, of meaning,

Of love—of a spirit—of a soul.

No lexicon exists for the emptiness

Echoing throughout the soil

In this place.

 

The Vines of a Tiny Truth

“Roots” 1943 by Frida Kahlo

The Sunday Muse Challenge from The Sunday Muse

With my thoughts dried out,

cracking like the earth,

the seeds of some miniscule truths

take root within my chest

sprouting monstrous vines to wind down,

clawing into this cracking earth

until escape cannot be had–

the only tiny truth contained within the seeds,

the simple one of sacrifice

in the day to day.

Scars of Hope

Image is my own

I gather hardened scars of loss and damage
Braided into keloid beauty
That are not blossoms of bitterness,
But fragrant beauties
That make me who I am.
Even the bars of your barren garden
Called love could not steal away
The essence of my hope.
Instead, the black, barrenness
within sugar syrup words
Of one never able to love
Contain no acid
To eat away
My skin of hope.