Tag Archives: trauma

The Ur Resonance

That head cold of a place,
claustrophobic like asthmatic lungs,
a beginning, an ending,
depending on where you look.

In that heaving chamber,
a body stands misaligned,
like paper planes fumble folded,
the right side crawling away,
desperate for the solace of shadows.

The rest of the body too, one can assume
(but know nothing).
Where secrets grow like hair,
even as the source will never do again.

Another figure is inhaled,
drawn deeply from the darkness.
A reflection of the native,
lunging towards its chiral twin.

The folds of space between them thin,
become thinner still, non-existent,
a monstrosity of osmosis.

A tired rage erupts from the forebearer,
one ‘good’ hand emboldened and armed,
vomited out from the disheveled shapes,
plunging a dagger into the aggressor,
again, and again, and again, and again,
until, together, they slump away,
retreating from life, reality, everything.

Out of Mind, Out of Sight

Could you stash your memories in a secret box,
wrap them in chains and bind them with locks,
if it meant more memories could be made to fit,
in the space you’ve spent your life making for it?

Some thoughts grow and grow and grow
until those thoughts and those memories are all we know,
taking the place of the thoughts we should think now,
unless we can find a way to quiet them somehow.

“Perhaps if we feed them they will just go away,”
I hear a voice inside me meekly say,
but thoughts are like hungry cats pawing at your door,
no matter what you give, they still want more.

A friend told me not to think of them at all,
treat them no better than a fly on the wall,
but thoughts are bigger than flies, louder too,
and if you let them, they’ll hide, jump out and surprise you.

When I asked grown ups what to do, they said,
to find other thoughts or memories to make instead,
but some thoughts don’t like being alone,
and will steal the new ones to make them their own.

In the end I had to find for myself what to do,
because of all those I asked, no one ever really knew.
I held those memories close, whispered softly in their ear,
“I love you, but I need to move on. Don’t worry though, I’ll be near.”

And I gently tucked the thoughts away,
in a big cedar chest labeled, “for another day,”
so I could make new memories, keep the old ones at bay,
but go back to feed them or keep them company should my thoughts stray.

Poison Ivy

Desire, the fruit of patience,
          overripe and waiting,
wrapped tightly,
throttling the trees
with coiled potentiality.

One can but see me,
and be sated.
I cannot be consumed,
burned
cared for
pruned
adorned.

What flesh I know,
is only a passing glance.
Ignorance or incompetence,
either meet at the same end.

The dirt though, is amorous
as I stretch into all its nuance,
settling that wayward soul.
The sun showers me with praise,
it’s light on me in subtle places,
echoing my fingers in the earth.

But still,
I hide a quiet passion,
to move through the world as you,
create as you.

I put that lust in sweet oils,
ambitions charming enough for honey,
for dew drops,
but too much,
far too much for you.

On your skin that passion burns with envy,
raises the flesh in sour complexions,
cries out in pain, but at least-
a part of me is with you.
At least- you won’t forget my name.

I, Father

When they were born, he was humbled quiet,
his heart taking seed in that fresh ground, quiet.

Much of the turmoil in his mind settled,
until even his feelings did sound quiet;

and when they were taken, to his own shame,
instead of protest they only found quiet.

The sapling he had been, grown in lush soil,
infertile now, withered with profound quiet.

Far too late, he begged for their love returned,
pleading tears until they were drowned, quiet.

This offense, his only true legacy,
Brendon’s mouth twisted up, bound. Quiet.

Wounds

The vitriol-
the violence gestating in cobwebbed cupboards,
all the features of the face pressed against the wood;
a toppled plateau waiting for the end.

Say nothing though.
The voice will draw it out,
all that suffering and pain;
is the last of the fruit that remains.

Say nothing then,
let it fester,
consume us who feed on it;
not with teeth, but patience, digesting.

Symphysiotomy

It has to hurt first.
Be safe, they say. Watch yourself.
It’s not like it thirsts for blood,
but it may as well- the way it does.
Carelessly consuming everything you feed it,
anything in between,
whatever remains in the afterglow.
Let go, they say, that’s all you need do.
Sure, it’s not like it thirsts for blood,
but it sure knows where to find it.

You need two hands just to wake it,
the persistence to prime it,
the courage to face it after all the warnings.
You need two deep breaths,
and a moment of silence before you begin.

It cries out like a banshee of chain and gears,
louder than reassurance,
but trust, you need only let go
and it all stops;
the whaling,
the violence.
Though in order to know anythings gone wrong,
it has to hurt first.

Words as Weeds

We are bleached sidewalks in the sun
cracks counted in innocent fun
careless feet as deadly as guns
“your mother’s done, your mother’s done!”

Oft young words will burrow inside
find a cozy place to reside
in the cracks where even light hides;
from there it bides, from there it bides.

Seeds that use the darkness to grow
stretch their roots out and far below
where we break with more cracks to show
and so it goes, and so it goes.

When weeds like these we do impart
they cause our reason to depart;
if we take them too close to heart,
rend us apart, rend us apart.

Catch those seeds as soon as they fall
give them kindness in which to sprawl
and ask their source if they recall
their own downfall, their own downfall.

What seeds in them took root within
broke their spirit like newborn skin
and let them know it’s not a sin,
to start again, to start again.

Bill Brody

“It was the drugs,”
              they said,
“the trauma”
“the loneliness,”
loading him up with excuses
              he had no business
              nor inclination to carry.

He was busy,
                    always.

Ideas, drawings, paintings
            inventions, stories
                              political campaigns
                                          music, movies,

             shooting out of him
                              all hours of the day or night.

Leafy green things, alive and vibrant.

      though in the winter he would turn statue outside
                                  naked
                                        cold

                          for hours alone
                                no one to prune the eccentricities
                                      or take him inside

      and he would call me sometimes
            to talk through the night;
screaming at me of
                        decay, darkness, the hollow in himself
                    but never saying any of it out loud

Like a dead tallow tree bursting with life.