Pain #Poetry

Palpable, sweet Jesus, sharp like the hunting knife he carries
As breath is stolen from my burning lungs
I am aware of nothing else
Numbness is all I desire with the world turning red

Omen #WEPFF

Dead birds
Circled the base of the oak tree
Like some morbid decorated rug

Frozen
Bodies, eyes as black as onyx
Like mini-devils in disguise

Dirtied
Snow lined the opalescent horizon
Like some smeared prismatic lense

Winter
My heart’s an icicle waiting to break
Like the diamond under a hammer

Like a message from some deep dungeon

I know what awaits me
-a box in shape of the reaper

*Author’s Note: This poem was written for the #WEPFF’s April Challenge (Click on image below).

Mental Illness & Writing (My Story Part One)

“Being different and thinking differently make a person unforgettable.” –Suzy Kassem

My mental illness is definitely not something I generally like to talk about; however, it’s probably one of the main reasons why I write.

I saw this quote on the internet the other day, and it got me thinking about things.  Lots of things.

“No matter what we make, creativity always changes the creator.” -anonymous

Anyone who creates, whether you’re a photographer, musician, or writer (the list can go on and on), not only do you have the ability to change your own life through the act of creating, but other people’s lives as well.

How do creatives have such powerful impact?  One of the best answers I found was in this explanation:

“Art does not show people what to do, yet engaging with a good work of art can connect you to your senses, body, and mind. It can make the world felt. And this felt feeling may spur thinking, engagement, and even action.” -Olafur Eliasson, Why Art Has the Power To Change the World

To create is to connect. And in this day and age, we as the whole seemed to have lost the ability to truly connect with ourselves, to people, and to the world that surrounds us.

Is it a wonder to why we feel so lonely? So disconnected?

Yes, we have this thing called technology in abundance but it can NOT fully step into the role of the connector. While there is that feeling of being connected to someone on the other side of the digital barrier, it still feels artificial. Not real or alive.

On the other hand, creative arts have the ability to do just that.

Through music, paintings, sculptures, photographs, poetry, and on and on.  So, while art has the power to bring people together, it also has the power to heal especially for the creator (aka artist, songwriter, poet, etc…you get the idea).

How does art heal us?

Art and music affect every cell in the body instantly to create a healing physiology that changes the immune system and blood flow to all the organs. Art and Music also immediately change a person’s perceptions of their world. They change attitude, emotional state, and pain perception. They create hope and positivity and they help people cope with difficulties. They transform a person’s outlook and way of being in the world.” –How Art Heals-Mind/Body Physiology

Music has always been in my family especially on my mother’s side which yielded several musicians including an uncle who went on to play with an award-winning Native American-Folk band, December Wind.  As a girl, I can remember many occasions when family members gathered together at my Grandmother’s house for a “jam session” completed with guitars, banjo, fiddle, accordion, harmonica and even a set of spoons.  I was at an age where I was misunderstood (no one knew I was partially deaf until later) and music was something I understood. I’d sit on the floor, and “listened” to the beats and deep bass sounds for hours.

Although I loved music, I never learned to play an instrument (the desire was there though), I ended up singing in the school and church choirs for several years (I’d harmonized through the “beats” and reading music).

Since I couldn’t be a musician, I found myself drawn to words.  Words I also understood so I delved deep in the worlds created by words.  Here I connected with characters who became my friends since I had so few in the real world (byproduct of being “different”).  After accidentally discovering writing (the story behind this discovery can be found here), I’d took my favorite characters (Scooby Doo and Shaggy were among those) and created my own world with them in it.

Writing became a lifeline to the intense loneliness I’d felt.

When I was in college, I took to writing journals as a way of dealing with the stress and pressures that went with being a student living away from home.

In 1992, I stopped writing altogether.  This was the year I was diagnosed with Usher Syndrome (a form of Retinitis Pigmentosa-progressive blindness-which included hearing loss).

Depression really emerged at this point in my life though I was never diagnosed.  And when I married my first husband, Aaron, anger replaced everything else I was feeling and he bore, unfortunately, the brunt of it.  The depression and anger steadily grew worse over time, and then the worst happened.

He was killed in a car accident.

Grief and regrets overwhelmed me, and I nearly did the unthinkable.  I backed out just before it was too late as I realized that this would be the ultimate regret that I could never return from.  Worse of all, it would hurt my family as well as Aaron’s.

I just couldn’t do it.

Instead, I poured all my attention and strength into finishing college (which I did over a year after Aaron’s death). By this time, I’d moved out in my own apartment, but also had regressed from all social activities becoming a hermit with very little contact to the outside world.

Then Jay came into my life (actually he returned to my life, but that is another story of its own).  He changed everything by not only marrying me, but by reintroducing writing back into my life through a gift of a leather-bound journal.

In this journal, I spew all my anger and pain like vomit.  When the pages were all full, I closed the book and packed it away (even to this day I have not gone back to read it).

Now being emptied, the healing can begin.

(This is just part one of my story.  I plan to continue in the near future)

Kari

This poem is about a girl I once knew.  We were the same age when she disappeared.

 

It was a warm summer evening
The moon, bright and full
Who knew that it would be your last?

Shadows moved among the houses
Benign, all but one
Who knew the night would be so deadly?

Vanishing without a trace
No witnesses but the trees
Where could you have gone?

Rumors and hope
Your family held on so tight
Searching, always searching

Like the serpent, he crept amongst us
Writhing, hiding
How does a heart gets so cold?

Seven years, he held back
The truth buried oh so deep
How do you pick up the pieces that once was your heart?

Time may have passed, but you’re
Still close to our hearts
Rest in peace, my friend

 

Read more about her story here.

Jay #Poetry #ADK

There is a town nestled
In the valley, hugged by
Those majestic peaks of old

Where the water’s still clear,
And fierce against sun-baked bedrocks
Rolling, rolling under the creaky covered bridge

Here lies my heart
Where the ancient spruce forest
Whispers my name, whispers my name still

Where the warm breeze carries the songs
Of the bygone, filled with sighs of
Past hopes and dreams

There I can still hear the laughter
Of the innocence, the sweet music
Of simpler times forever gone

Here lies my heart
Where the ancient spruce forest
Whispers my name, whispers my name still

There is a place where I yearn
To return, to rest my weary soul
From the chaos and noise

Where I can finally release my
Troubles, pain to rejoin
The melody of the peaks, and fly free

Here lies my heart
Where the ancient spruce forest
Whispers my name, whispers my name still

I Feel

My eyes lift to the sky
And watched as the nightly orbs
Melted into nothingness

Just like balloons
Dreams drift up, up
‘Till I can no longer hold on

I feel
The ground sucking me in
With nowhere to go
But down, down to the
Endless abyss

It still feels like
Yesterday when I sat next to you
Watching, waiting

For the blipping sound to go quiet
And with the silence
Came the depthless void

I feel
Your arms around me lessening
The warmth of your hands growing cold
I’m alone oh I’m alone

Though these eyes may not see
I know you’re there, shining down on me
For as the rain washes away my tears,
The clouds will fade, fade away

I feel
Your touches in the breeze
caressing , comforting
No, I’m not alone, never alone

How Is It That A Song Can Sound So Poetic?

Since it’s National Poetry Writing Month and that I’m from a family that’s musically inclined, I’ve wondered how interesting it was that songs, in general, can sound so poetic (and why on earth do people believe that poems can’t be sung?).

Both have a beat (rhythm) as you sing (or say) the words. Both have verses which tend to have some sort of a rhyming scheme. Both have the power to evoke emotions and images. On the other hand, the lines of a song tend to be much shorter than most poems; and frankly, a lot catchier (easier to remember).

So, yeah, there are few similarities between a song and a poem, but when you really get down to the nitty-gritty, they are two separate entities that may “sound” and at times “appear” like one another, but they’re not.

With being hearing impaired, it’s more difficult to compare these two side by side just by listening; however, when I go to write a poem, and then a song, that’s when those differences become much more apparent to me.

Here’s a little fun. Read the lines below and decide if this is a song or a poem:

You say you’ll give me
Eyes in a moon of blindness
A river in a time of dryness
A harbor in the tempest

Gone

Gone is the generation
Of those who came from scraps
And gave us their all

Gone are the dreams
Dashed by the approaching
Darkness like some smothering veil

Should I give in and give up?
Should I just toss the towel
And let it all go?

Gone are the ancient evergreens
Security blanket against the world
With them, my soul

Gone is the innocence
I once knew when life
Was an open, sunny road

Should I let the past win?
Should I just toss the towel
And let it all go?

We all have to face the
Twilight there’s no
Running from what awaits

How many sunsets
Before it’s our last?

Gone, soon we’ll all be gone

Do I just toss the towel
And let it all go?

Or shall I live for
The sunrises, however few
I might have left?

Many things, people
May be gone, but
I’m still here

No, I think
The towel I’ll keep
And give it one more try