Tag Archives: despair

Acceptance

Bitter, rasping, grieving, raw
Pain drips, seeps, crawls
Enters every orifice
Building in complex patterns
So severe, so horrific
Chains I have anchored about me
Ensnaring me in a choking, godless bankruptcy
I cannot breathe through it
I am drowning in it
There is no me anymore
Just obligations, duties, responsibilities,
Contrived relationships
Confusion, my brain is seeping away
So I’ll be no more then the man downstairs
Constantly singing his toothless songs,
His cells are in me, so is the dominatrix’s,
Mine? Mine are gone –
There is no me anymore –
I having been missing the memory of her
The one who was so smart, but in the end no more than
A sack of liabilities dumped on the doorstep of a woman who shows love
By beating it out of you
For the good it will bring
Oh, I am drowning
In a reflection of me
There is no me anymore –
I traded her up for this shell
With no respect for the casing
for the heart
for the mind
when others didn’t respect me
I believed them
Soaking it all up like wine
Becoming drunk on deceit
These are crone fingers, brittle, grasping,
Seeking to hold onto what long ago went away
In bitter disgust
At the wretch shivered and hovering in the corner
Trying the hold onto the dust
Left in their footprints
Alone
And self-created
Effervescent ________________________________________
My daughter’s laugh is effervescent
Bubbling out of her wellspring
From a source I don’t know
She took the best and seized it
Grasped it in her precious fingers and held on for dear life
Until she found the right people to share it with
She has her own Zen iridescence,
Sparkling in the sun, soaking up all life-giving rays
She is this generation’s Job,
She has ground to cover
And making it fast
Not time for bonding now . . .
I turned away, thinking she was at my feet,
turned back and she was gone
the door open, the dog left out

A Summer’s Bloom

The bloom of summer is upon us –
Lush, verdant, foliage spilling out of every crevice,
Eagerly seeking their moments of glory
Before winter’s chill sends them in retreat.
Children cascade in movement –
A ballet of motion gracefully brimming with enthusiasm,
Ready for each new adventure,
Clamoring for attention and activity.
From my window I watch –
The rustling of the curtains not caused by breeze but by hand,
The air is too dense with heat and humidity
For my fragile lungs to take in –
Each inhalation is like breathing water.
My windows are frames for the seasons,
My vision to a world I can’t participate in.
My life without is confined to certain temperatures,
Low humidity, some seasons but not others.
An air conditioner and oxygen tank regulate the conditions in which I exist.
The ache of joints and spasm of muscles necessitate heat therapy
When it’s broiling outside –
There is irony in the wearing of warm clothes in air conditioning,
In the dense, slumberous heat of August in New England.
A family birthday bash – seventy odd people –
Festive tents, music, coach rides, and the joy of friendship shared –
Everyone outside, saturating themselves in the moment –
While I hold court with the infirm within . . .
Thirty or forty years younger but just as decrepit, maybe more,
I’ve forgotten what it means to enjoy
As my oxygen tank puts back the oxygen
We stripped from the planet via pollution and overcrowding
I regulate my days –
Quietly, pensively,
Searching for meaning and validity
In the rustling curtains of my windowsill.

A Worthy Life

What then is a worthy life?
A life that justifies the energy
needed to sustain it.
In my diminishment my essence feels shriveled,
parched, depleted
while within rages a torrential battle
against the walls of this confining body.
Suicide can’t be justified –
(that would be unworthy) –
my battles are not meant to scar others.
But the endless exhaustion and pain
that governs my days
may be no more than the last vestiges of inner warfare
– and yet – the wellspring of pain is mute,
steadfastly locked in my throat,
begging for release – but afraid,
oh so very afraid –
that should inner ravings be released
they would be viewed as obtuse, chaotic, crazy . . .
the erratic mumblings of a crone
whose tottering footsteps wore down paths
best left untrod
and whose actions spoke
not of integrity and honor
but as hollow offerings to a vacant God –
words as leaves dried and blown from trees,
spiraling down, to be whipped away in winter’s winds,
leaving no trace they had left their imprint
on the gracious and beautiful landscape
we are given the opportunity
to make a difference . . . a meaning . . . on.

 

Volatility

Storm surges –
not knowing from moment to moment,
whirlwind tempests
stirring waters into choppy, cut-up waves,
slicing bodies into fragments,
buffeted by forces beyond control.
Death and despair,
pulling up roots,
pushed over by greater forces.
one by one the fortresses’ buttresses
fall, stone by stone
smashing on heads
bruising damaged minds,
praying for resurrection
in the wake of thunder’s heartbeat,
lightening’s spear thrusts –
how are we to bear up
to life’s dark furies?

Without A Voice

WITHOUT A VOICE

His touch whispered against her flesh,
softly, gently, weaving a pattern
of infinite acceptance
of the safety of his arms within
which she felt,
of the sanctity of their home
which they had built together,
and the murmured sighs
of the children they created . . .

Yet within the voiceless plea
echoed through her veins,
take me to freedom,
no more despair.

They had such looks for each other
sending others questing
for the secret so obviously born
in the passion they shared.
And gazing into his eyes,
she felt she was falling
into he liquid pools of green amber,
a falling away from herself
into ways of her choosing.

Yet within the voiceless plea
echoed through her veins,
take me to freedom,
no more despair.

For within the quietness of his voice
roared a rage which scorched her,
though rarely shouted,
its timber reverberated  through her body
causing the cells to bang
against each other,
the skin to break forth in bruising.

Yet within the voiceless plea
echoed through her veins,
take me to freedom,
no more despair.

Never did his arm raise to strike
but his words bore a power,
far greater than physical force,
for once the wound heals,
the mind forgets, and beatings
feather about the edges
of blurred memory,
but words give birth
to inflictions of the soul,
and lie manifest in bruises
born on the flesh,
as silent legacy
to what her own words
cannot speak.

 

 

 

 

 

The Mask of Reality

A kaleidoscope of colors,
brilliant and beautiful,
adorning her majestic countenance,
she flickers her rainbow
of glorious delight, catches
the breezes . . . and flies.

Those watching from lowly places,
bow in reverence to her
stunning splendor, failing
to realize her abundance
of colors covers an aching heart
weeping for the safety
of a silken cocoon.

Never understanding for they
don’t reach past beauty,
content to remain
in superficialities,
wanting what they see
to be what they know,
and n more – they
speak in hushed tones – –
of loveliness and gentleness –
as they watch her
fluttering among the petals.

One day she no longer
will grace the garden flowers
and forget they will –
later, when other
lovelies pass in sight,
they’ll exclaim of
beauty again,
failing to remember
a day in the past
when a beautiful butterfly
with head held low,
looked with despair
into vacant eyes –
then quietly flew away.