poems

poem: in space

Ours is a tango
A back and forth frisson
Of two magnetic energies
Who yearn for connection
But haven’t yet learned How to meet

Solitary creatures of habit
Tentatively touching antennae
We send out tendrils of exploration
Like snail stalks curiously brimming
Tasting the change in our atmospheres

We move in orbital paths
Circling slow, instinctively
Testing for friend or foe
A dance of stops and starts
I move closer … You pull away
You come near … This time I retreat
The pattern of our feet
Beating the manifesto rhythm
Of our scarred hearts

We keep the faith
But can we Keep it together
Or would that rock our courses
From their place
Among the stars?

You shine…
I am a mere reflection
But a moment in your grace
Can light the dark inside of me
For this space
Of borrowed time,
This pause
In my
Nocturnal
Arc.

poem: the silence of the grave

I’ve lost my words today –
They’ll come back to me, I know
When the griefstone blocking the
Synapses in my brain
Gets rolled away
When I am no longer standing
On the shore of a Tsunami,
Staring down the barrel
Of a trauma laden gun.
Words are my power,
They will not forsake me long
But how strange for now
To own a mouth
Not for speaking
To have a throat
Poised for a scream
that dies before shrieking;
How heavy is this silence,
Pressing expression out of place…
Entombed in a sunken grave, I wait.
I find I can whisper
And feel betrayed
By the loudness of the
Noise it makes;
Little more than breath,
To test if I have any strength left
To do more than
Push myself through
The motions of the day…
An automaton
Haunted by the silence
Of the grave.

poem: 47 Christs

A chance meeting
A peripheral vision becomes
Connection
Souls’ windows open
Allowing both of us a glimpse inside
Vulnerable you see me
I feel your spirit as well
Like recognising like
As two cosmic beings dwelling
In earthly shells
We breathe the same air
I breathe you in
Notice the texture and the markings
On your skin
A testament
Of places and people you’ve been
I entrust my essence to your
Capable craftsman’s hands
We give
Our tokens to each other
A mix of art and magick and grace
Your face revealed
I love your smile
The easy way you draw me near
And the way our friendship grows
Like tangled roses on a vine
Wildly free
Journeying together.

poem: kinfolk

When I think about where I’m from
I think of fat bottoms encased in high-waisted stretch denim,
Babydoll crop tops, daisy dukes,
And sitting around a picnic table on a late summer’s afternoon
Drinking everclear and southern comfort and acting like we were grown.

I think about the familiar ritual circle
of shelling peas into a well-worn metal basin

-plink- -plink-

Drinking sweet tea from mason jars while engaging in casual racism…
Gossip about that ‘negro girl who works down at the Piggly Wiggly’
and my uncle who won’t own a red truck because he says red is an N-word color.

I think about how they pronounce words like
iron and wash and libraries –

“arn”
“warsh”
“liberry”

And say caricature phrases like

“fixin to”

and

“I reckon so”

but make fun of me for my lack of accent
as my roots start to dissolve.

I think of the unloaded shotgun always propped
in the corner of the closet where we played dress up
I can still smell the leather of Mamaw’s shoes
The roll of cinnamon certs in her handbag
And the oddly pervasive woodsmoke aroma of a farmhouse that had no fireplace.

There was a snake under the table once
It blended into the rug, rough and tightly coiled
Like the alzheimers coiling itself invisibly around my grandmother’s brain.
Nobody saw it until it moved but then
We moved and there were screams and
Someone chased it out with a broom
When I think it probably just wanted somewhere warm to lay.

I think of Papaw’s hands,
Big fingers that liked to crumble cornbread into a glass of milk
Calloused hands that preferred to shake hello and goodbye rather than hug,
But so gentle with the barn cats that played at his ankles.

I don’t remember the last time I saw my grandparents
In my memories it’s always late afternoon
Bleeding into evening when the fireflies come out
And you catch them in jars with no thought to their fate,
Just a fleeting piece of nature to be devoured and consumed, like me –

The last bud on a
Dying branch of a family tree
I neither know
Nor understand.

poem: i am

– Written as an exercise during a writing workshop on self and metaphor

I am a deluge –
Erupting suddenly from within
Floods that bypass my parched throat.
I cover everything and pull it under,
Drowning everything in grief tears.
I am over-saturated, spilling
Untidily into other peoples’ lives.
I am a deluge.

,,,

I am a bellyful of hope –
My waters ebb and flow.
I host abundant life in my womb;
I hold secrets only dreamers know.
I have colours you’ve never seen,
I glisten and glean in the sun.
I am a bellyful of hope.

poem: electric dreams

Dear Dr Freud,
I must admit I’ve never been a fan
There’s something kinda creepy
In all that Lolita jazz
I mean yeah, I have daddy issues
(And mommy issues,
And issues with people in general),
But I assure you my cigars are just cigars,
and not the least bit Oedipal
But you must have been on to something
Especially in the field of dreams
Cos when I turn to psychoanalysis
To put myself to sleep
I find I’m counting penises
Instead of electric sheep.

poem: i don’t want to die today

– TW: Su*cidal Ideation

I don’t want to die today
And by that, I don’t mean
That I’m in any danger of dying.
It’s just that today, for a change,
I’m uncharacteristically apathetic about my demise.

I lean back against the train carriage window
Examine the passengers
In the other train speeding alongside
And idly think, what happens if we collide?
But today my brain is not interested
In hypothesising how many pieces of me
would be left to find.

I wouldn’t say I’m in a good place,
Just a numb place, a space
Where neither life nor death hold sway.
Today is not the day I go home and put a gun
In my mouth
Today is just the day I switch on the television
And zone out.

My subconscious keeps counts
of headstones that mark the graves of everyone
Who’s ever believed in me
Helped me be more than I thought I could be.
I can’t help but feel that I’m letting everyone down;
No matter what I do, I seem to drown.

But today is not the day
I linger on the street with one foot off the curb
It’s also not the day the voice assuring me it gets better
is loud enough to be heard…

Today is just a day for just existing.

poem: knuckles white arm steady

– TW: Depression, Su*cidal Ideation

Depression isn’t always 
Visible scars, it’s not always
Sitting in your bedroom with the blinds drawn, 
In week-old pyjamas, listening to The Smiths 
And fantasising about who would come 
To your funeral. 

Sometimes depression is 
White-knuckling through your day job, 
Trying to push away the negative thoughts 
And just focus on the thing 
That keeps a roof over your head 
And the lights switched on. 

Sometimes depression is 
Sitting in a crowded mall 
Hurrying to enjoy a cappuccino 
Before the cracks appear, 
Fighting a losing battle with the tears 
Everyone else pretends not to see. 

Depression is getting home and collapsing
Because you no longer have to keep the mask on, 
But that was the only thing holding you together.  
Depression is ice cream for dinner 
Because you’re too exhausted to cook. 

Depression is holding your cat just a bit too tight
And crying because their toe beans are so precious. 
Depression is laying on your back 
Staring up at the ceiling and sinking 
Into a warm black hole of molasses 
And burnt marshmallows. 
Depression is being overwhelmed 
Because tomorrow, you know – 
You have to get up and do it all over again. 

Depression is the dark shadow
That spoons you as you cry yourself to sleep. 
It’s the good morning kiss 
Of a day that’s not quite as bright for you. 
It’s the weight of chains around your shoulders 
That no one else can see, chains 
Around your ankles dragging you down into the deep. 
Depression is staring hard in the mirror,
And for a split second not recognising your own face,
Because the person looking back…
Actually looks happy. 

Depression is what keeps your tongue 
Still and your mouth closed, 
Because other people don’t know 
That talking about your problems 
Or popping a pill 
(Which to choose – red or blue?)
Isn’t going to make the loneliness go away. 

Depression is hanging on to the corpse of hope, 
Because you’re too afraid to let go
Of the thought that things 
Could still get better for you.  
It’s in that stab of jealousy you feel 
When you look at others 
And see life, warmth, joy and happiness;
All the things you’ll never be able to hold
Without fucking it up for yourself
And anyone who loves you. 

Depression is not the thing that kills;
It’s the thought of living your whole life this way
That eventually pulls the trigger.

poem: stages of survival

The mind says,
“This is too much!”

The body says,
“This is too much – I cannot endure.”

The heart says,
“This is too much – I cannot endure, this will kill me!”

The will says,
“This is too much -I cannot endure;
This will kill me, I have to fight this!“

So the will bolsters the heart
The heart rallies the body
And the motion of the body calms the mind.
Confidence soars;
Surely this too will pass.
The pricks are kicked against, 
The salmon swim upstream,
The good fight is fought, 
The trucks keep on trucking. 

Until one day you realize: 
You’re still standing on ground zero, 
You never actually left square one. 
No one is coming for you. 
Nothing will ever change. 
No effort made will ever matter. 

Then the will says, 
“I give up.” 
The heart says, 
“Just let me die.” 
The body says, 
“What’s one more burden?” 
And the mind – 
The mind is numb, and says nothing.

poem: tangled

sometimes, when you’re angry, 
what you really are is hurt…
and disappointed,
and sad,
and confused. 
but it’s easier to claim the anger;
because the other stuff 
is a tangled ball of yarn, 
and it’s tidier
to shut it away 
In an old shoebox 
and promise yourself 
you’ll find the end of it 
and untangle it
one day… 
when you have more time,
and patience, 
and distance 
between you and the person 
who broke your heart. 
but you know it’s a lie –
the truth is, 
that day never comes, 
and all of our closets burst
with shoebox coffins
for string so knotted and frayed
that it will never again 
be useful 
to anyone.

poem: loss (我不想再爱你了)

Only through 
Ghostly echoes
Of old posts and emails
Can I point to any given
Moment and say:
This…
This was the beginning 
Of our end;

Only now that the smoke
Of my affection
Has cleared
Can I see the place
Where my last,
Desperate attempt
To keep loving you
Died.

When I was in it,
I thought I’d hang on
Until The End of the World;
But I guess
The apocalypse
Came and went 
While I was looking
The other way. 

Now I’m adrift with
Memories sudden
And unbidden:
Your smile, your laugh 
Your gesticulation –
Scattered ashes;
A corpse is required for a resurrection 
You didn’t even leave me a grave
To mourn beside.

poem: parásitos

– TW: domestic violence

It starts with subtlety.

With questions like – “Why do you bother?”
and – “Why don’t you find something you’re actually good at?”
Or – “Leave it; I’m better at this kind of stuff anyway.”

And because I love you, I stay.

It continues with small, unsupportive acts,
designed to make stressful situations even more stressful.

It continues with subtle but insidious social isolation,
until you are my entire world.

It continues with holding me to one standard and yourself to another,
while somehow convincing my rational brain that that’s okay.

And because I love you, I don’t say anything.

Because I love you, my will becomes smaller and smaller
until there’s very little individuality left;
I have no more needs except the need to meet yours.

Because I love you, I buy into the lie
that this is the fairy tale I’ve been waiting for,
and that any cracks that appear are my job to fix.

My panic attacks, the chest pains, the hysteria and the sleepless nights,
they all go away when we’re happy…
(and we are happy, some of the time…
that makes all the bad stuff worth it, right?)

We spiral down, each rock bottom giving way to the next…

It ends with me ceasing to exist.