Stealing my gravity
in sunlit memories
that echo through the snowstorm
like veggies in my soup.
Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category
Carousel Thoughts
December 14th, 2010
0
Ode to Le Mental Odur’
October 19th, 2010
0
Dearest dark creatures who haunt my mind and wiggle their way into my stories,
I wrote you purty poem. Enjoy, you foul fragments.
Ode to Le Mental Odur’
There you stand with sword at my throat
offering mental health should my inspiration elope.
“I’ll think about it but…”
Instead to you I’ll blow a kiss
as I stand firm and sing you this:
“It sucks but…”
Rhyme
and rhyme
and rhyme again.
Through my words
I’ll shred your skin.
“Because…”
There you stand with sword at my throat
“…but all I can do is giggle…”
Because it’s your end I’ve wrote.
“Hahahaha…”
I am so weird. Don’t even ask where this came from.
In Firelight
October 9th, 2010
2
Temple moths bravedancing firelight and filtered shadows between eaves
hawk like in their rain drop world
Daring wing tips turned up against the edge of night
to slice through perfumed currents
Breaking only to rest against the home warmth
listening to the river song in their air
Strong enough to carry the universe
and gentle still to lull the dragon’s sleep
Peaceful in epic wonderment
the threads of the universe collecting in thrice silken webs
Before parting again to take flight on dust glittered wings
- To Casey for sharing his musings
Two Cat Agenda
January 29th, 2010
2
Just something cute the cat wrote while sitting in my lap and borrowing my fingers. ;)
Two Cat Agenda
they tumble and bounce
fumble and pounce
fur flies
tails held high
claws out
breath like trout
gnaw and bite
dance and fight
eat fur
then nap
and purr
- For Tommy and Gabe -
- … you little brats …-
Gone
January 16th, 2010
2
Wrote this on the way to work while I was trying to wake up. I kept having some train of thought or another and it kept going -poof!- … but even thought I kept losing my thoughts I knew I was losing them. I’d be sitting there going ‘now what was I thinking about…’ but I’d never get it back. :)
I think as far as some of my longer poetry goes I’ve completely given up on punctuation. At least for the time being. It’s distracting and tend to pull me from the meaning between words. Also, I can’t seem to pick a title for this so for now I’ll settle on…
Gone
lost thoughts swimming strange
through murky waters
listlessly
broken echos drift
between walls intangible
slipping away
left open
a gaping hole
wondering
what was
And another little bit, because the rhyme-monger in me just cant seem to help it, that I came up with while at work is:
over fire – under thunder
prey of shadows – sewn asunder
- humanity -
It reminds me of a little riddle or something one of my characters might toy with on and off. :)
Box In My Pocket
January 12th, 2010
4
i carry a box of words in my pocket
neat and tidy in their square confinement
stirring like smoke in lightless corners
breathing deep the magic beyond the void
they question and crow at the nature of their pointed world
built within the tranquil delicacy of pen to page
strong as stone and more fragile than the spider’s web
clawing at my senses with ephemeral curiousity
tearing through the empty spaces in my mind
leaving no broken ridge or plot hole ungrazed
as ravenous children through the candy store
running and eating- filled only by their hunger
beautiful and ugly, marvelous and terrible
as precious as sand and equal in number
glinting bold beneath the golden sun’s gaze
and glowing holy under at the feet of an imperfect moon
these are my words
carefully kept in a box well guarded
without a lid, without walls
because the universe just isn’t big enough
I’m not even sure I’d classify this as a poem or just a random assortment of words… it’s hard to tell the difference with me sometimes. :) Maybe it’s not very good but I still said what I said and that makes me happy.
Plea From The Falling
January 5th, 2010
2
So, I’ve been trying to stay away from rhyming poetry as of late because I find it so easy to fall back on and because I often lose sight of my message till I’ve found ‘just’ the ‘right’ words- even though we should all know by now that the right words don’t exist. The art is in painting a beautiful picture with all the wrong ones and letting it shine with crooked light. :)
Last night I woke to find myself at my laptop frantically trying to open some program or another just to type these words- the few quickly becoming the many in just a few short lines. Images assailed me from a particular handful of ideas but as I wrote it morphed and turned on me. This morning as I opened my laptop and skimmed those solid lines I found things I hadn’t seen. It was beautiful.
I’ll tell you what the poem’s based on in a second post because I’m probably going to ramble and I know people tend to avoid longer ones, so if you read nothing else please at least skim my poem. I know my rhyming scheme is a bit childish but the greatest beauty I’ve found in writing comes from not caring about anything but the under-script.
Plea From The Falling
Tell me a darker story
bathed in broken glory,
of opened wounds
and sealed tombs,
tinted with the shadow’s touch.
Whisper to me
my secrets to be freed,
from the hellish twist
of love with a fist,
and dogs for better mothers.
Relive the once forgotten
no more the ill begotten,
with tears and ink
bleeding what we truly think,
before gravity shreds another angel’s wings.
I know it’s not great but I felt compelled to share it. :)
Poisoned Breath
December 31st, 2009
4
Each poem a purple prayer,
Prayed through weeping lips,
Burning my tongue with sour hope,
Poisoned by the sweetest bliss.
~Spirit~
Breathe it through the ink.
Testimate to the Violets 1.0
December 21st, 2009
2
Taking some advice from my writerly buddy Jessie I’ve decided to put this ‘word in progress’ up for a few days. I’d really love to know what everyone thinks of it. I do have a rough direction I want to take it but it’s all still vague in my head. Likewise, I’d also love to know what anyone takes from my words. The title and last line hold particular meaning to me but I don’t want to give it away and bias others. :) Enjoy.
PS, if you’re curious about what spawned my total change in style (as I perceive it) you might be interested in reading this post.
I am a dance never ceasing
a constant flow of little moments
strung together in time
dewdrops on a spider’s web
glistening and reflecting
experiences of the internal story
I am a song yet to be sung
born in the rhythm of flying rain
whispered to the blackened night
notes never play too in sync
surging through veins
the tempo in my lone heart beat
I am wings hardly used
seldom soaring
on feathers once plucked
toeing at the cliff tops
the taste of blood on the wind
a memory of delight
I am a path seldom taken
exotic to the senses
and unknown to the touch
soft sand never broken
by crushing waves
of society’s firm paw
I am this poem
beyond punctuation
written with a different ink
penned beneath tired eyes
and pulled beyond it’s structure
a testimate to the violets
Purple Words
December 19th, 2009
2
Picked up a book the other day, PoemCrazy (it’s one word on the cover) by Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge and let me just tell you right now- it’s absolutely awesome. I don’t tend to consider myself much of a poet for many reasons, the main one being something you probably wouldn’t think.
Some baser reasons being that I’ve had it hard coded into my mind by teachers of old that poems are short pieces that often rhyme… This is not true. Not in the least! Nevertheless, the urge to shorten things and force a certain flow still exists within me. Don’t get me wrong, I like to rhyme but I know that’s not what the poetry is about and my need to find the ‘thing that sounds right’ often leads me away from the message my words were aiming at in the first place.
Another reason is that I never really, really like my poetry unless it’s written in the moment of some deep emotion. It always seems so ‘on the surface’ if I write it any other time, like it’s not meant to be. The other side of this being that when written in the moment my words often carry a darker flavor on my tongue- these are usually the ones I like even more but life experiences have built a slight flinch response in me wherever that taste is present. No matter how much I may enjoy it.
These two reasons together almost equal the third. The one main reason I don’t quite call myself a poet- even though the words in me prose differently.
I haven’t yet been willing to break enough rules.
That’s changing though thanks to the influence of some wonderful writing buddies and a few good books. Beyond that though- words will come when they want to. You can try to put them in a fish tank or behind a brilliant wall but like water (Taoism!) poetry can flow over all things. Over glass, under sand, carefully eroding stone away with time. All I need to do is keep the flow going and eventually even I won’t be able to stop the purple prose from doing what it wants. :)
Peace, love, and purple words!
Origami Unfolding
November 29th, 2009
6
Single stage. Empty handed.
The crowd deaf and willing.
Holding hope like origami,
A paper crane with paper cut wings.
Lifted high. The lights go bright.
Curtain drawn. Waiting. Wishing.
A cricket’s chirp. The shift of seat.
Soundless criticism from mice unworthy of the cat.
Held up higher. Teetering.
Testing the wind with a tongue of color.
Crowd sits forward. Unmoved.
Missing the greatest thing never seen.
Torn wings take flight.
Beyond light. Beyond dark.
Through shadow and glow.
Above the dust specks.
Headlong into the rafters.
Gasp. Blind eyes blink.
A child shouts “It’ll get trapped!”
And then…
We two stood watching,
As the ceiling opened up.
Cobwebs shaken. Plaster raining.
Paper cut wings freed.
A broken poem rising into the deep blue of night.
And all the crowd saw was me.
Holding up a crinkled piece of paper.
A sacrifice to the false lights of the stage.
All sitting forward. Deaf, dumb, and willing.
Oblivious to the gaping hole in their theatre.
While the child and I watched
The origami of this world
Turned inside out.
~Spirit~
Half Woken Yrteop
November 25th, 2009
2
The sleeping dragon in my soul,
Awaits the darkness
At bid and toll.
Voices in me bellow deep,
What the old have sown
So shall I reap.
Thunder rings,
Lightning sings,
Static clings.
Open my wings.
Poetry flies from finger and tongue,
Holding out hope-
One day to be sung.
Standing at the end of time,
Lost and lingering,
With no hope but to rhyme.
I wrote it after waking up from a drug induced (sinus meds) slumber so give me a little credit that it at least has some semblance of flow. :) It’s not meant to be good, it’s not meant to be great. It’s just a bunch of words thrown together in a semi-happy little pile.
Sometimes
October 29th, 2009
13
There is a little girl inside of me.
I don’t know how old she is but sometimes I can hear her crying out.
Sometimes she asks the world to hate her because that’s all she’s ever been taught…
Sometimes she asks the world to love her because that’s all she really wants.
Sometimes she goes ‘La, la, la. I can’t hear you!’ to make the monsters go away…
Sometimes she sings and hums so they can’t get their way.
Sometimes she’s screaming so loud it echos here and there…
And sometimes she’s so quiet I forget she’s really there.
Sometimes she asks me why they broke her…
And sometimes she curses who they were.
Sometimes all she can do is remember…
When all I want to do is forget.
Because sometimes she is me…
And sometimes I am her.
Sometimes.
Papercut Wings
October 19th, 2009
4
This one is actually part of three random and somehow interconnected poems I came up with while I had the flu. I should be posting the other two soon but I’m in no rush. There’s another version of this one I have and while I’m sure it’s better- in some sense of the word, it grates against my style wherein this one flows so much more effectively in my mind. :)
Art by Keiyou, as always. ©2009 Click for a larger (awesome) view. Click here to check out her DeviantArt. Enjoy.
Paper cut wings
Stained lovingly dark.
Folded and torn,
Bookmarked and burned.
A swirling mass,
Of flurry and swoop.
A thousand words to a feather
As every pen a new page.
A world unfolding
And folding much still.
A universe born
On those paper cut wings.
Carried and flown.
Hope, hatred, and love.
Molting in verse-
Innocence and pain.
Opposite unto opposite,
And everything in between.
Adventure and romance,
Comedia and le ole horror.
Buried deep down,
And bleeding out to the tips.
The feather’s edge-
A perfect pen.
Bearing no better message
Than this:
No cover can hold
This Dear Bird within.
Like bars to a cage
The song still carries true.
For each book is a bird
As you are it’s wings.
How far have you flown?
Think’ily Broken
October 19th, 2009
6
The first part of this is something I wrote while I was sick. The second part is more a realization I had while writing it that I expanded on when coming back to actually post it. I don’t expect it to make sense to anyone but if you’re a usual reader then you don’t expect that either.
Think’ily Broken
The big room. The little room.
The rocking back and forth.
Hand twitch and nails itch.
Silence the noise and noise the silence.
The static. The fuzz.
Filtering into all the cracks in my brain.
Pulling newly stable pieces apart.
Tapping and tweaking.
Pacing and stewing.
Can’t shut it off.
Like drugs- drawing me back down.
The masochistic child.
Picking at me with a sharp pair of tweezers.
Pick. Pick. Pick.
I think, perhaps, that I’m making progress. Or at least, that something has changed. I’ve gone through life telling people about things from my past- the more prominent, slightly unavoidable topics that just come up like when I’m asked where my ‘parents’ are. In these moments I’ve been known to say some rather blunt things;
“He shot himself.”
“She was a drunk.”
“When I was little…”
And then when people react strongly;
“Oh, my goodness!”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I shouldn’t have asked…”
I tell them;
“Oh, I didn’t really know him so it’s okay.”
“No, no. It’s alright. I’ve repeated it half a thousand times.”
“It doesn’t effect me anymore.”
Because that’s how it’s always been to me. It’s something I tell people and it’s at a distance. It happened and now it’s in the past. You can’t change the past. You can only move on from it and for the most part that ‘is’ true…
Except when you lack control over your brain and neurotransmitters are shooting off in random directions. When images rush up so harshly it’s almost as if you’re back in the moment and no matter how much you claw at the inside of your skull you can’t escape. When the past effects the happiness of the present and being a generally optimistic person doesn’t do me half as much good as I will it.
Then the past matters but back to my point- even though I feel worse, I think somehow that’s part of me getting better. These things effect me more, hurt me more, right now. Yes, that sucks, but in bringing the wound closer to the surface maybe I’ll finally be able to take care of the scars. In these moments when the hurt feels so fresh I find myself no longer brushing flecks of past blood away.
I don’t say things like;
“It happened and it’s done.”
“It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
“No, I’m fine. It happened years ago.”
Now I say;
“It happened and it hurts.”
Because it does.
I don’t look at it like I”m looking back through some window. I don’t look back as a strong person who has miraculously made it through this thing untouched. I look back as a broken child who some how survived and even though it hurts more than the former- perhaps I’m stronger for it? I’d like to think so. The writer in me who forever seeks the resolved ending, holding onto cliche like a crutch, would like to think so though in my darker moments… even those used to limping can trip over their safe-guards.
Screaming Beneath Skin Deep
October 4th, 2009
4
Alright, this is my attempt at taking myself out of the direct explanations. Letting the words speak for themselves and for me instead of me speaking for them. It’s like a free write except I had to keep an eye on myself because sometimes I get too tempted to fall into habits of old while I’m trying to learn new ones.
Art by Mari Keiyou specifically for this piece. Click for original size view. :)
~
Screaming Beneath Skin Deep
Pressure building.
Bones creaking under the effort.
Bowing, bending, breaking.
The ribcage for the heart? No.
The chest plate for the soul? Never.
The brain.
The brain box!
My skull.
It’s breaking and quaking, and sparking and smoking.
Embers fall from ears to hair.
Purple highlights catching beautiful fire.
Throat shuddering a voiceless scream-
“Stop in the sanity!”
With wild eyes reflected in the mirror and mouth most firmly shut.
Pop, snap, slap.
Nails bared, clawing over scalp and face.
Pull away this mask of isolated fragments!
Tears burn in blood, salting wounds on the border of not.
Tendons, muscle, flesh and bone.
Ripping, tearing, dripping.
Soaked into the earth.
Fall forward and away.
Sinking beneath skin deep into a place no mirror can see.
Home On The Highway
September 30th, 2009
6
This one is… a few different experiences combined together. Three that come together more fluidly in my mind than any other. One of the times I ran away- along the highway on my bike, a time I went out to buy lunch before school- it was dark and I was riding my bike along that same highway, and then the third time was late at night through a mixture of snow and rain- on my bike, on that same highway after Christmas shopping.
Each of these memories is precious and terrifying. Thinking about it makes my adrenalin rush and my hands jitter but I can’t stop the memories. I might do more with this piece but until I do maybe I’ll just let it ruminate here on my blog for a little bit.
By the way, while I’m at it I want to thank Jessie and Lisa who’ve both inspired me to go chasing after my inner poet. :)
Home On The Highway
Heart pounding and tears flowing.
The wheels on my bike turn faster and faster.
The street ever moving,
Each car a danger and a friend.
Invisible eyes haunt me from every window
But all I can do is peddle.
Lights from the town burn like a child’s candle,
The only thing keeping my fear in check.
Puddles pulse and splatter beneath me
As the snow steadily replaces rain.
Chill on the air and ice under tires.
Headlights coming closer.
Grip tightening.
Fear rising.
My breath rushes out.
Home is no shelter.
It feels choppy like I need to do a lot more with it but, oh, well. It’ll get there when it’s ready. :)
Prosy Something
July 27th, 2009
4
The music that moves me,
The lyrics that sooth me.
Feeling, rhythm, ignite.
Softly singing deep inside.
The heart that beats,
The blood that leaks.
Flowing script beneath the pen.
Pages turning before my eyes.
Worlds turning.
Worlds burning.
And the angel unfolds her wings.
~Spirit~
Don’t ask me where this came from. It was trapped somewhere in the catacombs of my laptop and I just now decided to free it. I’ve no mind as to what mood I was in when I wrote it but I like it. :) Something in me must have been itching to get out that day.
One Last Word
July 23rd, 2009
4
One Last Word
Tricky, tricky little shadows,
Telling me all your white lidded lies.
So natural to you
As breath to me.
If only you knew my power
As a child born of darkness and light,
Good and bane,
Boon and blight.
I will not stand for this.
Whispering words of ill-reality,
My soul open and vulnerable
Aches to gobble them up.
Alas,
You do not know my power.
My strength.
True.
Your words are sharp-
Born from the tears of a severed childhood
But mine are sharper-
Born beautiful with a practiced edge
And honed with a skill no mere shade can gain.
True.
Your words contain the finest poison-
Ill begotten by blood, tears, and a mottlement of bruises
But you are no master-
And I have long studied the antidote,
Dispersed freely through will of my pen.
True.
Your words call forth the shadows-
Rabid beings who cower in the corners of my vision
But I control the light-
And without light no shadow can be cast.
True.
You have had the first word,
But I will have the last.
Goodbye.
Dedicated to the many who hear.
~Spirit~
My Knight
July 18th, 2009
5
Each word is a stone in the pond of my conscious,
The ripples that flow in answer to a promise.
Only you fathom what truly I write,
My honest and noble, pick-up driving, knight.
You look in my eyes and no words need be said,
The whole of my heart yours- long before we were wed.
Where once I was lost, my broken soul crying,
You found my self and kept me from dying.
Now our days are filled with sunshine and cats,
Fur covers our cloths and buries our laps.
And I have more than I have ever dared to dream of.
I love you, my knight.
Goodnight.
I’m Just A Bird
July 18th, 2009
2
This is something a little different. Like most of my poetry it rhymes (I can’t help it) and it’s partially about writing but this one… I don’t know. It just hit me in the head and said ‘Hello!’ and I didn’t have any choice but to let it out. I don’t personally like how my rhyme scheme turned out, the flow feels off in parts but the poem itself won’t let me change it- a life of it’s own. :) Please enjoy and comment if you feel like it.
I’m Just a Bird
I’m just a tired little bird
Typing every single word.
Here I hop and there I chirp-
What are you looking at,
You little twerp?
So, I’m just a bird,
Too tiny and small.
Feathers too soft and wings too frail.
All I do when I fly-
Is fail.
But that’s the thing that makes me true.
Makes me different
And better than you.
So I’m just a bird
Who types about flying.
My words are my wings
While the twerp in you
Is grounded and crying
Because I may just be a bird-
But at least I am trying.
~Spirit~
Dedicated to the bird in us all who is constantly reaching for the sky in every possible way we can.
You know it’s more than a hobby when…
July 18th, 2009
3
You know writing is more than a hobby when you pen out the rest of your latest poem on a box of tampons because you’re stuck in the shower and can’t make it to your laptop in time.
Not that something like that happened to me recently or anything. *cough* Just thought I’d mention it. *cough cough* ;)
[Edit: Found this (AquaNotes) in my favorites from a long time ago and thought my fellow writers might find some use for it.]
Single Beat Song
July 15th, 2009
10
It’s hard to know what right or wrong.
To go or flow with
-my heart’s-
-single-
-beat-
-song-
?
The shadows…
Sometimes they scream.
Sometimes they don’t.
Sometimes I listen.
Sometimes I won’t.
The path before me is strong and clear.
Laden and blocked with the things I fear.
Swim the current or be pulled along?
Once more I’ve returned to that
-single-
-beat-
-song-
.
Sometimes in near drowning,
We find our salvation.
Sometimes in fruitless swimming,
We’re gifted damnation.
This street says stop.
And that one says go.
Do you always follow socially accepted flow?
What if your heart spoke one language and your mind another?
Do you fall back on logic?
Or let the butterflies flutter?
It’s hard to know what’s right and wrong.
Until I do,
There’s only one thing I can do.
I’ve got to flow with
-my heart’s-
-single-
-beat-
-song-
.
I Want It To Rain
June 24th, 2009
4
I want it to rain.
I want the clouds to rip open with booming thunder,
And I want to see a sea of lightning splash out across the darkness.
I want the heavens to split open over my head and pour down on me with all they have to give.
I want it to rain.
I want the wind to churn and whip through my hair,
And I want to be there at the center of the chaos
With my arms open wide and eyes closed-
Spinning.
I want it to rain.
I want to let the thunder roll until I can’t hear myself think anymore,
And in that moment when the world is roaring around me
I want to scream and shout until I’m hoarse in both throat and mind.
I want it to rain.
And then…
When it’s all over maybe the quiet will return within this troubled skull of mine,
Like the calm after a storm.
~Spirit~
Little Bird Black
May 9th, 2009
4
About two weeks or so ago our roof was chosen by a family of beautiful Redwing Blackbirds as a nesting place. There are two more pairs of these magnificent creatures starting homes down further in our yard but we don’t see nor hear them quite as much as this pair who’ve been driving our poor cats nutty.
A few days ago I was lucky enough to have a bit of a close encounter with them. It was so nice out I decided to take a blanket, my writing stuff, and two of our kitties out for a little nature centered writing session.
Our two youngest kitties are leash/harness trained so they don’t cause too much of a fuss but they were so happy when they got to sit less than three feet away from these huge birds, well, not huge like the hawks that can take off with the cats- hence the leashes, but bigger than the Finches and Chickadees who usually frequent our feeders. I was amazed when they continued to fly to and from their nest while we were out there, even coming down ‘nearly’ within Gabe’s reach and acting like he wasn’t there at all. Lol, my cats are so mad that I wouldn’t give them the line they needed to get slower (I only do that if they’re hunting spiders).
Anyway, while my cat children enjoyed a little game of yank-leash-fall-over-drool-and-repeat I came up with a little ditty in my head that later turned into this. One of the lines irks me terribly but it’s stuck in my head and doesn’t want to be changed so I’m going to leave it as it is. As for the image, it’s something I drew (pen) awhile back. It’s actually a Chickadee but I decided to color it like a Redwinged Blackbird just for the hell of it. It might be a little fuzzy because I took a photo of the original in my art book instead of just scanning the thing- it’s so much quicker, lol.
Ode to Little Bird Black
Little Bird Black with red on your back,
Eating your seed and sneering at cats.
Feather by feather and abreast to abreast,
Hiding in my rooftop and building your nest.
From beak to foot and wing to tail,
Nevermore fall where men have failed.
Sing to the sun and tell us your story,
Of forests green and winds so stormy.
Fly high, fly free,
And to your own skys be true.
[Edit: Video and photos of my new avian friends coming soon!]
Random Unexplained Thought
May 3rd, 2009
3
This silence is overwhelming.
It gets between everything and forces me to notice the space.
Inside my head, inside my heart, throughout my life.
So aggravating and yet so constant.
Standing on a precipice…
Slowly falling forward.
A Note Never Read
March 24th, 2009
9
I’m happy and feeling full of light and love and I ‘was’ writing about that when something else suddenly started to come out. I went with it because I’m so seldom strong enough to crank these thoughts out and I think my happy mood has something to do with this new found endurance. Either way, I should warn you this might sound a little depressing but please don’t fret. This is far in the past, or it seems like far in my short little life, a bit more than six years ago. This post also includes minor elements of child abuse though I’ve hidden them within my wording- figured I’d warn those of you who might be sensitive to that sort of thing as I know I am from mood to mood.
PS, the photo above is taken by me. It’s a beach- just looking at it gives me a calming feeling similar to the one I had when I got this all out of my system. A little empty and a bit raw from the roaring waves but no worse for wear and all the more beautiful for it’s scars.
A note never read, a feeling never dealt.
A heart forever broken, and the tears that never melt.
I wrote her half a dozen letter before I knew what I was planning. Half a dozen letters before I even knew that I was planning at all. Letters… lots and lots of letters trying to tell her all about these new things I was feeling, emotions I never knew existed until that very month.
Perhaps I was trying to explain it to myself more than to her. Perhaps I was just trying to sooth and justify the sense of guilt and betrayal that washed over me whenever I thought about how happy I was with them, the other family- happier than I had ever been with her.
Whenever I acknowledged a hole deep inside my heart.
Whenever I acknowledged that she would never be able to fill it.
Whenever I started to suspect she had no desire to.
Strange how whole and hole are so similar in spelling.
So paradoxical in concept.
I kept the notes carefully hidden at first. Behind school papers never started or in my stories never heard. I don’t know why I hid them, hadn’t I planned on giving them to her eventually anyways? Perhaps not, either way it was a compulsion to stash the many first drafts away and as I started to pick my spots with more care I started to think about why I was picking those spots in the first place.
And then I started to write even more.
She’d never once helped me with my schoolwork, I even asked from time to time but she showed no interest and eventually… I didn’t either. She told me she was able to simply pass all her tests, never having to pick up a book or turn in an assignment. So all I ever did was the tests.
She always encouraged my art, showed it off to all her friends but all I ever wanted to do was write. She never read my stories though, not even when I asked. If she did, she never told me. A poor mistake on her part.
She never asked me what I was writing or where I was going, not even after I’d gotten into trouble, a stupid child’s mistake of breaking into a warehouse to do a little exploring. She’d heard from all her friends that I walked the length of the highway from beyond one side of town to beyond the other- and yet…
We never spoke of it.
We never spoke of anything.
I probably wouldn’t have opened up,
But maybe if she had tried…
A little…
I would have eventually answered.
That’s all I wanted after all.
For her to try.
Maybe that’s why I wrote them, those letters never read. Maybe I was hoping she’d find them in my stories and schoolbooks and her accusations of what was written would prove she was actually involved in my life… Maybe I was hoping she’d find the one, always a new draft, always left beneath my pillow or the ones that occasionally fell out of my bag.
The few on my bedroom floor? The one on the table? The two in the kitchen trash? How about the handful mixed up with her own pile of papers documenting all her court born sins, sour memories she’d rather see than he own daughter’s handwriting?
Maybe I did want her to find them, even out in the open, then at least I could have pretended she had gone into my room- forever unlocked with nothing ever hidden away, and tried to find out what her daughter was up to. I could pretend, and pretend, and pretend and so my world would be right again. So everything I had known would no longer fall into the past tense.
Then I could pretend the other family was wrong.
But she never gave me anything to pretend with. I, a child who proudly played in the land of make believe more often the one of reality, could come up with no excuse for the things I was forced to see.
They told me she was a drunk.
She went to the bar every sing night leaving me home alone. I paid for my own birthday with old beer bottles saved up in the garage, over fifty dollars worth and still she spent money on Jack and Coke when we were going to the food pantry every other week. She left me to play pool with men I didn’t know in strange places that smelled of smoke and stale bodies while she flirted and danced.
They told me she wasn’t a very good mother.
I woke up early one morning and didn’t return home till long after dark, I left no note and never made a call. When I came home she’d already left for the bar. I repeated this ever since and never once did she ask where I was going. I skipped school once a week and drove nails over my arms. I never hid it and she never said a word.
They told me she needed help.
She spent so many nights crying. So many nights dancing in the living room telling me her ex boyfriend who was never a boyfriend was standing out in the blizzard watching her, and couldn’t I see the red tip of his cigarette burning in the rain? She’d grabbed me roughly one night and calmly told my friends it happened every full moon.
I started telling myself that maybe it would be good for her too- if I left.
Once she told me she was lonely, one of those rare days we spoke- a day I told her all the same things her phone psychic had though for quite a lower price. I gave her an awkward hug and told her she had me. She just gave me a sad look and changed the topic in her own little way.
I understand what she meant when she said she was lonely but that moment still haunts me even till this day.
I wrote her half a dozen letters and I warned her that I was straying.
I warned her that another family had offered to be my umbrella.
I warned her that I was tired of standing in the rain.
I warned her that I was starting to understand what it felt like to feel love,
That I wanted this feeling more than anything else.
Even more than I wanted her.
I warned her.
But the letters were never read.
When I left I left them as well and sometimes when the nights are quiet and my new family, my true family, sleeps… I wonder if she read them. As the house was foreclosed and she packed everything away in that meticulous way of hers- I wonder… did she finally go through her daughter’s papers? Did she look at my blankets lying cold in an unused bed? Or did she look at Jack?
We had visits, a few, before the courts declared it unhealthy for the both of us- before I started to give up on her, but she never once mentioned the letters. Never once gave me anything I could use to pretend she was involved.
For my very last visit I wrote her one final. A single slip of paper, bent and crumpled at the edges. It wasn’t like the others, I didn’t try for my best penmanship, didn’t search for the most mature or meticulous words to catch her attention. I didn’t try to keep the folds creased perfectly because no matter how beautiful it was or how well worded- it said the same thing all the others had, abet in far fewer words.
I didn’t yet have the courage to stand there passively and hand it to her, to stand and wait for her reaction because I was far from strong enough to take her words with a grain of salt, so I threw it at her before turning to the mediator to thank him for his time and apologize for his abrupt departure. With that I turned and ran.
I ran, and ran, and ran, and didn’t stop until I came to the place I knew as home.
And still I wonder if that note was ever read.
This is all part of a much longer and far too truthful story. Unfortunately it is a far too common one as well. If you suspect someone of child abuse please don’t hesitate to reach out to them. Child Services isn’t always the best of help and sadly in a lot of cases there isn’t enough proof to help the child but if you ever reach out and let a kid know you’ll always be there to listen I promise it will be the greatest gift they ever receive and if it weren’t for gifts like that from a handful of people- I’m not even sure I’d be alive today.
This Moment
March 2nd, 2009
0
Let go.
Be, see, feel.
Experience.
A constant moment of change. A constant step in a consistent but forever turning direction.
Reckless, indirect, open, honest and clouded.
Free.
Simple Is
December 16th, 2008
0
Ink in my veins.
Blood in my pen.
Words in my heart.
Love on my paper.
Paper in my soul.
Soul in my story.
Words are not words.
Words are much more.
Words are simple.
Simple is a web.
Everything.
And nothing.
Interconnected.
A concept for something more.
To Prose Or Prose Not
December 9th, 2008
3
This bit of randomness was oddly enough inspired by some late night reading of William Blake. I lovingly blame my husband who bought me a beautiful book of his collected works for my birthday. I love you, Hunny!
Twas a poet and didn’t know it,
For I wrote this poem and didn’t show it.
Downwards scribbles my wand of ink,
Hastily scribbling every thought that I think.
With cat in lap and muse in heart,
I patiently wait for my brain to fart,
And splatter my pages with green and gold,
Of faeries, and dragons, and dreams untold.
Twas a poet and didn’t know it
For I wrote this poem and didn’t show it.
As fish to sea and bird to sky,
No one really wonders why,
My pens all starve and my fingers cramp,
And I stay late into the night under ink splattered lamps.
Twas a poet and didn’t know it
For I wrote this poem and didn’t show it.
Pages pass me in a trance like blur,
And now my lap is covered in fur.
Still words pass from soul and hand,
Of ice, and fire, and far off land.
To prose or prose not.
It is not a demand.
Nor- is it ever a question.
No Desire To Title
October 30th, 2008
0
I need someone to talk to,
And yet… I can’t seem to get any of the words out.
Not the words I need.
The road before me is uncertain,
As is the road behind.
So confused I find myself,
With no roots to look back on as a reference.
So strange it must seem to others,
Their pasts set firmly in their minds.
Where in mine there is a tangle,
A broken web of knots and memories.
Beneath my feet the bricks are broke,
The road indistinguishable from the heavily wooded copse.
Covered and shrouded with thorny vines-
I cannot see or claw my way to clarity.
It bruises my soul to know-
That I know so little and must fight so much.
I shouldn’t know half the things I do,
I shouldn’t have to fight the battles that wind their way into my heart.
Who started this ball rolling?
Why did they have to ruin so many lives?
Why can’t they stop?
Why can’t they leave me to my peace?
Am I falling?
Purposely Untitled
July 23rd, 2008
3
It has been a busy month. I wish I could say I’m sorry I haven’t blogged, that I feel bad and every day I don’t post I cringe- it would have been the the truth but…
I decided to relax. I’m not going to let this feeling snowball.
That said I’m not even going to both with an update right now. :) I just don’t feel like it. I worked hard this week and it’s about 5 am right now.
Good things in life right now: Hunny, wedding, wedding dress, Kaiyou, the return of a best friend in my life, anime, writing, finishing writing, starting writing, blogging, chat, patient friends, patient readers, randomness, inhaler, soy sauce, sisterhood, love, questions, Keiyou drawing pictures for me, Cheetos, story telling.
Not so good: Homework, time, work but not the work, not being able to adult-nap Keiyou, not having time to tweak my website, not being able to blog, time, time, time, asthma.
And now for some Taoism…
Something mysteriously formed,
Born before heaven and earth.
In the silence and the void,
Standing alone and unchanging,
Ever present and in motion.
Perhaps it is the mother of ten thousand things.
I do not know its name.
Call it Tao.
For lack of a better word, I call it great.-Tao Te Ching, Ch. 25, the first part.
My Tao of Today
Stories mysteriously formed.
Born of all worlds- mundane and fantastical.
They come from a place deep within, the uncharted waters of my soul.
The craft alone is a constant.
In the hands of the writer it is alive and ever moving, squirming, and becoming something else.
Becoming everything anything, something, and nothing.
There is no way to pin it down with the words I use to catch glimpses of this magick.
Call it Tao.
For lack of a better word, I call it writing.
To You
May 28th, 2008
11
I’d like to share this teeny tiny little thing that popped in my head while thinking especially of Crystal and Jo. Here’s to you, girls, and all my other wonderful writing buddies. Heck, you don’t even have to be a ‘writing’ buddy because writer or no we each have a story to tell even if it never makes it to the paper.
Never Alone
Rain thrumming,
Storm coming.
Words soaring,
Spirit roaring.
The winds of change are now.
Heart beating,
Logic fleeting.
Pen blurring,
Pages turning.
Each our paths are different.
Pain marring,
Memories scarring.
World burning,
But Earth still turning.
Yet each the same when crossing.
Stories sharing,
Friends caring.
Wounds mended,
Book ended.
We writers are never truly alone.
-Copyright F. Cote 2008, steal and I will know.
I know it’s not much and it’s not even that good but hey, it’s from the heart so who cares?
Work In Progress
September 20th, 2007
0
This is a poem I’ve been going back and forth to for some while now. It’s nothing much the idea came from my daily mantra. Someday I will be an accomplished writer. Yet at the same time saying- I am a writer (at least in my spirit.)
PLEASE NO STEALING
I work hard to pour a little piece of my soul out and onto the keyboard. It is very difficult for me at times and if you steal from me you will be stealing a part of me, a puzzle piece that won’t fit back in the box once it’s let loose. If you would like though I am happy to loan the residue of my soul out provided my biological name accompanies it. I am also very willing to do personal works for others upon request just for the fun of it. So, see- you don’t need to steal from me.
The Writer
___________
I am a writer-
my breath pours forth
from pen paper and prose.
I am a writer-
words fall from my breast
like wine from the most holy chalice,
ever flowing never ebbing
the tide of my soul.
I am a writer-
a vortex of of creation
swirls within my mind,
bringing life to what never was
though when written will forever be.
I am a writer-
my heart beats twice
for every word that spills forth
onto the parchment of my mind.
I am a writer-
my style, language, and flow,
are the way I walk, talk, and think,
It is what I am.
I am a writer.
____________
Not sure I like the ending. Like I said I’m still working on it. My poetry is usually more emotional than this so…. yeah. Trying out new things. Some teens experiment with drugs I experiment with different kinds of writer and I still get that same kind of high. It’s almost as addictive too!
