once there was a truth between us and then a lie, then many more ’till we were lost along the way somewhere.
there once was love behind your eyes but now we dance around the lies as you pierce the very air with the sharpened knives of your unremitting rage
the music starts and my emotional museum dredges up some dusty piece of trouble from a basement closet that opens inward, but not out. i blow off the dust, shine up the lies, and my precious good intentions fail to save me, once again
i could live with ugly truth it is your lovely lies that i find difficult to bury as i toss my shovel-full of dirt onto the empty casket of what never really was.
love may be poison wrapped up in ribbons, a slow suffocation of all that seemed shining, a promise of dark dreams stinging with terror, as violence lurks behind yesterday’s flowers
she is cut to the bone, with whispers and smiles. this is not love, this is raw, wicked power. it is rape, with soft words leaving torn, jagged wounds on the bright, bloody shards of the soul of his lover.
the shadow of fear, falls cold as the night as hearts search in darkness, for truth without lies.
she’s not around much these days they always ask, but she stays away her secret life has such demands she has no time for her old friends
they see the pain behind her eyes they see the change but don’t know why she was so bright and vibrant then the music of her soul has dimmed her old friends see and want to say but she wouldn’t tell them anyway
her sunny smile seems insincere her house too clean, her kids too quiet her hair and makeup always perfect she looks the part, but she’s just not the happy girl they knew and loved she won’t ask and they won’t say but they can’t help her anyway
she keeps her sorrows tucked away she needs their help but she won’t say her secret shame keeps her withdrawn if only she could tell someone
one day soon, maybe today they might ask and she might say and they will help her get away
go, or stay, but do not think that if you wait it might get better that the first time will be the last time, don’t excuse the violence, it is not just stress or job or no job or money or no money, an abuser will be abusive no matter the circumstance the sad truth is that once it starts, it will always, only, ever, get worse
when is it time to leave? when you realize that no one, not even god, will change him for you, when you no longer care about what you are leaving behind, when your children tell you that it’s time to go, it is
when you decide to leave, just do it don’t pack more than you need, don’t leave a note, don’t call your mother, don’t involve your friends, don’t waste time gathering things that you are not willing to die for and whatever you do, don’t go back, don’t ever go back, no matter how sorry he seems you must know that if you give him the chance the abuser will get even
if all of life were this lovely perhaps there would be no fear or anxiety or troubles between people
if all of life were as innocent as a flower, and every sound as peaceful as petal dust, if every breeze brought only lovely summer scents and fireflies, then, just perhaps, people could be kind and lovely to one another as well
nobody will ever love you like i do, you f*cking bitch. you are worthless, stupid, fat/skinny, ugly. if you just hadn’t said/done that. it’s your fault that i had to (you know).
if you have heard some version of this, you are being abused.
wake up. you are not any of those things. you do not deserve to live in fear. you do not deserve this damage to your body or your mind. listen to your brain, not your ego. your ego has lost its way. see what is really there. look for what is true.
abuse is the life-time lease on a condo in hell. the only way out is to open the door, put one foot in front of the other and walk away.
injustice is born from our very humanity, our need for power, wealth and our enormous vanity. we destroy our neighbors, our environment, the futures of our children’s children, and our souls with those same promises and lies that have always ever turned us one against the other for the benefit of the oppressor never for our own.
what is today, sadly, is what has always been. tomorrow, if there is to be one, will require nothing less than the evolution of our very souls, from our caves and clubs and petty, excruciating wars to the open minds of harmony and love, before the final bits of what was now are scattered to the wind.
tomorrow is only the wind but today is the cool grass between my toes flowers turning toward the light birds pecking for worms in the morning crickets singing late into the night
i am engrossed in the great beauty of now there is so much joy in the extravagant colors of flowers catching sight of a flock of birds dancing together across the sky my heart follows the soars and dips and swirls
i love the wonder that surrounds me i am in awe of the extraordinary details in the tiniest of beings the vastness of the universe and my own beating heart
this moment is my reality it is what i have a moment and a heartbeat
we keep time not so much in days or years, but in moments that stop everything. some moments create deep fissures in the skin of our souls, as though splintering the heart, penetrating even our deepest being.
each soul is marked by scars
by tears not shed
by pain too great
by fires gone out
What hast thou done? The voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground. Genesis 4:10
Black Lives DO Matter. Black lives are important and necessary and cherished. George Floyd mattered, he was loved. George Floyd was murdered by hatred. George Floyd’s blood cries out from the ground even now, and will forever echo throughout the universe.
smile frozen in place
she thinks that she is hiding her pain.
dancing on a wire
to a tune played by her leading man.
it is a frantic dance,
a carefully choreographed ballet.
any flat look of disappointment sends ice into her heart.
there is no end to the music
no breath between sets
she must anticipate each twirl and spin
for failure is unthinkable
and punishment is swift.
when finally she sleeps,
her dreams are wastelands.
sadly, she still hopes to please
to find what is lacking, repair the breach, and return to the fairy tale.
she does not yet understand
that fairy tales are horror stories
in the end.
I walk here every day. The hill is steep for my old knees, but I persist.
I will smell the water, before my feet even reach the deep, cool shade of the little oasis beside the road. It feels like visiting an old friend. There are always birds here, and small critters I can hear, and imagine, but not see.
I whisper to the trees, grateful for their constancy.
I reach out to low hanging branches
touching their tender leaves with my fingertips and my breath.
It feels like a kiss
and i hold it softly to me as i walk past.
I walk this hill to touch my universe, to experience life in its many forms. I walk this hill for me, for my soul much more than for my body.
suddenly the storm is me my emotions rage and tear the air like debris tossed about in a wild wind i will not be peaceful if it means dying with the words suffocated behind my lips i will not be a shadow any longer i must stand in the light even if it is a storm
I have seen the beginning of the end it starts with always and never and continues down its lonely road toward not light but darkness.
The end is everywhere tonight. in your face, your voice, in the tension of your anger and impatience. I don’t think you even know that the road you have taken has no outlet. Given the opportunity, love will grow cold as cold as the water as cold as the walls that you build with words or no words at all.
we want time, and time, and more time, to what end? will we die happier if we live a long life of if we live gratefully for temporary things love, kinship, a smile, eyes that truly see
look at the trees, i doubt they complain about the years they don’t have. it seems enough to stretch their branches toward the sun, to witness thunder and soak up fresh drops of rain, to stand tall without demanding eternity.
breathe in the beauty and strength of the trees, endlessly renewing, shedding the old and moving on. it is the way of the universe. we live, we grow old, or not, and we die, maybe we change form and shape and live again, somehow or another or maybe not it doesn’t matter to me one life is magical enough, if i don’t waste it living in desperation and fear.
I’ve seen that look before,
you think that the problem is you.
Sunset pulls mightily upon your soul.
Stars and moon sing their own songs of freedom,
the night birds,
screeching and cawing to one another
delicately unfold their wings,
on the faintest breeze,
above the earth,
toward the growing darkness.
And you keep shoveling mountains of guilt
over your already tired bones.
You are only reaching for that part of the sky that belongs to you.
Do you think it is within your power to change
the soul that inhabits your being?
Many of us have tried
to squeeze ourselves into that perfect person mold
biting our tongues,
hiding our tears,
screaming into our pillows.
It never ends well.
Be who you are.
follow the moon and the stars,
unfold your soul wings and fly away
each of us are only particles,
currently assembled into sentient beings
held together by friction and stubbornness,
for the moment, of our being-ness.
pulled all of my strings and tore at my heart
’till my particles burned with confusion and dread.
from a bundle of tangled, broken fragments
was only the beginning.
learning to live again,
to find my own being-ness
took all of my soul’s work
and many days, and nights
when my particles disassemble this time,
I look forward
to becoming rain
The concept of becoming rain is from The Art of Living by Thich Nhat Hanh
tonight, i feel like a bird’s nest covered with skin. broken, twisted little branches held together with bits of string and sticks and stems wound up tighter than necessary to protect the pieces of me that have yet to shatter
i was a battered wife briefly, until I became a prisoner. which is of course, the only way to tame a Shrew
the single unlovely, outspoken, prickly weed in his perfect garden of quiet, well behaved possessions
the prisoner, fortunately, will never become what she is not and the Shrew will finally, at long last notice a spark of light in the darkness, pull herself up by her roots, and her hair, charge headlong into the blinding white light of freedom and never look back. not ever.
your circumstance is not your fate it is a warning, not a curse. run for your life before you put down roots