Shame

Shame-a draft of hot bitters-
unquenchable, harsh,
it can only be choked down.
You can drown in it,
wrap it around you,
a cloak to keep out fresh air.

It clings to you,
saturates creeps beneath the skin,
like a tick or parasite, corrosive.
So hard to let go of
for it is self-imposed.
Only you swallow it
hold on to it,
refuse to release it.

You can hold on to it an eternity,
or have the self-possession to release it,
strengthening your resolve
not to carry someone else’s baggage.
You can allow yourself to release it
and live a life of freedom.

Joy’s Revisions

Tears come of their own accord
catching me by surprise.
The Dam is cracking –
leaks ebb and flow
of their own accord
for days . . .

But they are the stirrings
of a new spring –
rejuvenating, cleansing,
purifying the soul.
Washing away crusty memories
of resentment or pain.
Letting life flow in.

They are far too few,
too spaced apart.
And while they may feel like pain,
They are the beginnings of joy.

How Do I Know?

 

Lord I hunger for your touch. . .
ache with the deepest longing
yet still believe.
How does one continue
In endless moments
With face turned upward
Begging for 0ne touch.
To say . . . I believe,
Not just spouting words
But searching
Within and without
For the Truth
And the Word.
I await
Your glorious splendor.
Thoughts whir
through my head
drowning out
the soft sounds
God leaves within
God, he’s easy
No one can dispute
His majesty.
But Jesus
The Word, the Light
Both son and equal
Of the almighty?
Of course he was human
Any fool knows that.
But divine? –
Still waiting for
A Proof I can believe in.
Sometimes I think
I believe . . .
But believe enough?
Enough to ward off
Doubts, despair
Soul wrenching
Emptiness?
In darkest night
I huddle, question,
Wrap belief through
My fingers,
And wait for assurance,
For answers.
For a quiet peace
To steal over me.

Lord hear my soul

Precious Lord of my soul
I look to you in night’s web of darkness
and dawn’s sweet, soft light
in hope, in wonder.
In supplest nuances
and bold staccatos of sound
You exclaim your presence
again, and yet again

There You are
but . . .
how do I cross
the bridge of my unknowing
to meet you unwaveringly?

Silent moments slide by
An ocean’s worth
while I look and wonder
And question –

Who are you?
Why am I here?
And most important –
What use can I possibly be
to your purpose?

I am as lost
As one of your sheep
slow-witted and dumb
breaking from the safety
of your guiding presence.

As angry and suspicious
as Moses’ Israelites
only believing during blessings –
fighting, scratching, bitterly rebellious
until God’s plagues of rage
or bold strokes of divine intervention
shake them from their torpor.

I am no more
Than those ancient peoples
But – I trust
Just as the race itself was saved
So shall I be
As long as I believe.

goat wrangler

Spring into Summer’s spring

Winter seasons’ past, spring is idling its way to renown
a special year this – leaves carried down the quick racing Farmington
Densely matted foliage crushed into compost waiting
Seasonal plantings – this year more fingerling potatoes smooth and tasty,
Basil stalks thrusting skywards, continually dead-headed to
Preserve the fragrant leaves at least through the
Tomato season. Sunflowers thrust themselves high only
To hang their heads in bounty.

Jungle vines scream in their rush to wrap about sturdier stock
along wires, into cracks in hut shingles, demanding infiltration
There is no rest in spring. Life rushes pell mell along its was
forgetting the cares of city dwellers-

It is a time to worship – the stars, fireflies, campfires
of summer’s long embrace. Even the flickering, tension filled
Apprehension of summer storms pounding, is naught but the match for
Of greater instances of Nature’s grand power.
Their coppery smells and fearsome noises
swirling into the potent mixture
already exposed – light jagged, breaking into fork
some hurtled across the sky, striking ground
burning unsuspecting trees while
goofy kids dance the rain dance,
counting the days till school’s end.

Until I Hear the Truth and the Word

As a child I didn’t give much thought to God, even though my Father was a Methodist Minister . I looked at the gentle face of Jesus found in most Caucasian churches. Handsome, long hair, white – Never much thought to question how they knew what he looked like in spite of the geographical  area from where he came.

Through my teens, I became more radical – smoking pot as I cleaned the sanctuary, bringing friends in for a safe place to drink beer, using the lounge as a place to make out. God got short shift in those times. But, had you ask me I would have given you numerous answers about God, never questioning if they were the legitimate truth.

My twenties and thirties were spent trying to find God. Rebelling against him. Questioned his sex, his size, where he hung out. And I was angry, rejecting Christianity. I prayed to the Yoda of Star Wars, understanding the Force.  Those were years of exploration – Buddhism, Paganism, Wiccan, the paths of the People. But still, I was searching to define God. And still angry. I worked hard at trying to find some kind of meaning or purpose to my life.

A few years back, I almost lost my life. Some organs shut down and most of my intestines were removed. I was in a medically induced coma for three weeks and for two or three weeks it looked like I wasn’t going to make it. I woke finding many memories of the past year or so were gone and I had lost the ability to move – at all.

Lying in bed for three weeks in the hospital, then three months more in a rehab while learning how to move and walk, I had a lot of time to think. Mostly of my anger toward people, life . . .  God was simply gone. And then  I came to understand that God had a purpose for me (hence the living), even though I didn’t know what it was. Even though it might be about me but for someone else I might never see or know.

Lately another dawning is occurring. I have come to understand the arrogance of my attempts to define God. Who am I to presume knowledge of the Creator? It was God who created me. Those pictures of Jesus, some artist’s rendering of what Jesus should look like were presumptuous. Those pieces of art from the Renaissance were attempts at finding God, as he was understood to be.  People had to create a God of their understanding.

So as I walk through fields and feel the wind’s breath upon my cheeks I realize if I shut up and get out of the way, God will let me know who he is – I need not look anymore. It is humbling but necessary piece in spiritual growth. I’m looking forward to the day I can hear what God wants and needs of me. . . . until I can hear the Truth and the Word.

Butterflies in the night

Gears grinding ever slower
Gummed up by old oil
Smoke coming out of ears
As thought winds down. 

I’m not a good friend to myself.
Once was –
but shifting trajectories
c
onfused my mind.

 Staring at the computer again
and again.
No semblance of brainpower.
No manifest of concise thoughts.

 I’m losing myself.
That part I valued most.
Wisps lifting and flying away
Butterflies in the night.

When did poison leech
synapses, nerve conduits.
Knots grown in density.
Fog rolling in.

Sorry.
For the drugs
And illnesses born.
For the wasting away
Of what was God’s for taking.

Sorry for me being me.
For the hours upon hours spent looking,
Misunderstanding the simplest connections
Snow on the screen of my mind.

 All verbiage is going.
I am no longer the girl
Among the b
rightest in class.
Computer no longer a handy tool.

Father died from complications
Born from dementia
Is this my genetic influence?
Of which I have no control?

I beg others to
f
ind answers to my questions
Articulate answers
To s
oothe my troubled brow

For I am no friend to myself
I no longer have the questions
Or the means to connect conflicts

I stare at the computer,
Mind numbing, an enemy of myself
Lost – beating my head against walls
Alone – no longer able to  hear myself think.

When is Sorry not Enough?

I’m sorry . . . for myself . . . to myself.
This is my burden to bear
Sometimes it is understood
Most times it’s not.

Many times I leaned on or used others
Because I didn’t trust myself
Didn’t believe . . .
Too much damage was already done

I may not always look disabled
Or act or function as disabled
But I clearly was . . .
I think it confuses people
Makes them ask themselves
What the truth was to them.

Was I not pushing myself enough?
Was I really unable to do certain tasks
While I asked myself the same thing
Beat myself up –
Exhausted my mind and emotions
On futility.

I have a chance   now . . .
To rewrite my life,
To understand my limitations
And misunderstandings
To move away from destructive people
And build a new support system.

Instead of shunning people with
Problems like mine
Embrace them.
Instead of feeling nauseous
As I looked in a mirror –
To accept me as I am,

Make myself more,
And be less self-concerned
And more open to new acquaintances
And new beginnings.

The place where I dump the stuff that's inside my head.

Geetha Balvannanathan's Blog - Isis Tratum

Poems, thoughts, healing, other art works (pictures, songs and videos not made by me belong to their authors, the rest being mine) © 2010-2046

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