Become myself
written July 24th, 2021

I say I want
to be a better poet

but I am also stubborn.
I don't want

people telling me
what my poems should be.

I want my poems
to become better

at being me. I write to
become myself.

The fox hunt
written April 20th, 2022

You think you want to know me?

People ask me
perfectly rational questions
not realizing that...

You see, it's like a fox hunt
the fox is backed into a corner
it doesn't stand a chance
and knows it

surrounded by the enemy
it screams in terror
stretching arms out in fear and rage
even though there's no help or salvation

oh, and it's not a fox
it's a child
without fox teeth and claws
and the enemy is your only love and safety

now a lifetime later
i look like anyone else
but that child lives inside of me

It wasn't that violent
but I don't know how else to describe
who I suddenly am

sometimes

The protector and the protected
written December 6th, 2021

The protector and the protected
created at the same moment
from the same material
by the same circumstances

one fiercely taking it all
laughing in the face of those
who think they can hurt her
those who would hurt her
unless they **** her she wins
and so far she has always won

while the protected
cries and weeps for the protector
the tears the other can not shed
yin and yang
always found together
if you look close enough

the protector protecting the protected
until there is nothing else to take
and she can withdraw back inside
while the protected
tries to curl around her
and silently scream
both of their pain away

the protector and the protected
two parts of a whole
eternally locked together
but always looking for  
yearning for  
separate from
their other half.

Those not heard
written April 13th, 2021

I write this poem
for those not heard and not hearing
long dead or not yet born
bound with chains in prison
wild children who never learned language
the feral and the afraid
the multilingual multitudes
whose language I never learned
the signs I don't recognize
those too busy or drowning in stagnation
the refugee walking alone across a barren desert
the mountaineer on the highest summit
the castaway on the island in paradise
the captive in your neighbor's house
those lost in their own minds
or lost in the country - the city - down the street
ones who took a wrong turn
we with headphones intent on our cellphones

I write this poem
thinking of all the ways we don't don't hear
                                reasons we don't hear
                                things we don't hear
                                people we don't hear.

Bright star
written November 22nd, 2021

A star is placed in the sky
when each of us is born.
It is all the things we can be,
the brightest version of us.

Life breaks and makes us
but somewhere up there
we are always brilliantly
complete-whole-enough-perfect.

My sky may seem dark and starless
but I know I am up there
(and so are you) shining
without anything diminishing us.

North Star
written May 14th, 2021

I grew up with the stars
but nobody pointed out
the North Star to me

I still found my way out
with the luck of those
never innocent

Now I am older
and more innocent each day
in a city that has stolen the stars

I dream of getting into the mountains
for just a night
where the stars still live

Come with me
show me your North Star
so we can both stop getting so lost.

The struggle of these poems
(of me)
written December 19th, 2021

I struggle so many ways
to write these poems
(to live each minute
of my days)

struggling to think they are worth
putting pen to paper for
(to think that I am worth
putting pen to paper for)

struggling to trust that I will find
the words to finish the poem
(to trust that I will find my way
to the proper end one day)

struggling to polish
the rough edges and gaps
the parts that tear the page
the parts too dark to say
the parts too bright to see
(to polish myself...
do I leave the jagged edges?
can I smooth them even if I wanted to?)

struggling to find the self-love
to take the time to write
(to find the self-love to be here
living my life not lost in my mind)

struggling to have the courage to share
(to be brave enough to speak out loud)

that these words are enough
(that I... am enough)

Happiness
written February 3rd, 2022

Long ago I locked away
my happiness deep inside
to protect and keep her safe

It's been so long
I almost forgot
she was there

Now I try to remember
to reach inside to the spot
where she resides

every time I do
a soft smile touches
my lips and sometimes
                                          —more

Going in—Going out
written June 10th, 2021

I am an expert
at going—in.

My instinct is—to go in
into the hollows of my heart
where fragrant roses bloom
red raspberries are always ripe
and love never leaves.

My instinct is—to go in
into my mind
trying to chart
the optimal path
through this turbulent world.

My instinct is—to go in
away from this world
where there is no time or place
and I can drift
on currents of nothing.

My instinct is—to go in
but to find myself
the rest of my story
the rest of me
now I need—to go out.

Loving kindness meditation for multiples (or you)
December 18th, 2021

You are safe.
You are loved.
You are known.
You are never alone.

Loving kindness meditation is a practice where people think positive thoughts for themselves and then others. You can find scripts, audio, and video examples on the web. I adapted this practice for myself as a multiple who meditates. Each person has to find their own way to healing, but this has been one huge step on my path. Adapt as you wish.

Set a timer to go off every 2 minutes. The Insight Meditation app has a very flexible meditation timer. One part (we use the term part or other to refer to the others sharing this body) starts and focuses on another part for 2 minutes, and then moves on to the next part, repeat until everyone has been focused on, concluding with focusing on yourself. There are 5 of us and one who meditates, so this is how we do it. Please adapt the statements to things that are powerful for you.

For 2 minutes think the following statements while visualizing the other part:
You are safe.
You are loved.
You are known.
You are never alone.

It has been very powerful to stop after repeating these phrases for a bit before the next bell, and see if a part answers back.

Continue for the next 2 minutes with the next part. Repeat until each known part has been focused on.

For the last 2 minutes, send these thoughts to yourself, the part doing the meditation.

Thinking about showers
written August 7th, 2021

I am laying in bed
thinking about showers
with you.

I type to you:
How many showers
are too many showers?

You respond:
Are you taking showers,
or thinking about showers,
or thinking about
someone taking showers?

Oh darling honey-bun
I am thinking about
you taking showers
and me in there with you

the water flowing over your body
as my hands do also
sweeping over your shoulders
brushing the soap off your back

you lifting your hands over your head
as my hands slide down
your arms and then your sides
stopping at the hips

so the water and suds flow
around my hands
and over your hips
tracing sensual paths

the water touching
that part of you
that we both
want me to touch

but not quite yet sweetie-pie
for now feel the water
and know that I am
thinking about showers.

This poem happened during the lowest point of my life after 3 failed suicide attempts. I went on a retreat to a nearby monastery. It was such a peaceful experience in the midst of so much pain, that words can't really describe it. This poem is about one amazing moment during morning vigils. I do not identify as Christian, but this poem still happened.

Blessed Beloved: The Crucifixion of Jesus
written August 11th, 1996

At the 9th hour
Jesus hanging on the cross cried out
My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?
Am I not your blessed beloved?

I know of a child
whose reality was anything
but blessed and beloved
who sat in the stillness of a monastery
watching the lights dim in the sanctuary
as the monks knelt in silent prayer

before the sun has risen
in the early morning
the soft light brings into focus
the simple crucifix at the front of the sanctuary

her eyes focus on the crucifix
on the myth? or man?
who died a horrible death
with nails through his wrists

the child who hurts so badly
finds someone like herself
in the eyes of the man not myth
who experienced such hurt
and yet is God's blessed beloved

she looks into his eyes
daring him with all the hurt there
but he doesn't look away
because he has also hurt

he has hurt so badly he cried out
My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?

in the eyes of the child he understands
that God so loved the world
that he made his blessed beloved part of it
he made his blessed beloved man, not myth
for only by having experienced
can God reach out and truly say:

I am the all powerful myth
but I am not some God on a pedestal
I am also you.
My son has died
not to become God
but to become you
so that you can look at him
in all his pain and glory
and recognize that you are also
God's own blessed beloved.

Good girl
written February 27th, 2021

I have always been
a good girl.
It was a role
that fit me well.
I took whatever
society-family-church
said I should be
and tried to be all of it
to prove - to show - to hide.

Certainly nobody would hurt
a good girl
and I was
such a grown-up good girl.
What could there be
in the life of
such a good girl
that I couldn't take care of
myself?

It's certainly the face I presented
and all the things
that didn't fit
got put
somewhere else
because it was absolutely essential
that I be
a good girl
and that nobody notice
all the things that were wrong.

Such a grown-up good girl
even if it was wrong
it must not have hurt
because I always
took care of
everything and everyone
until one day
I didn't anymore
take care of anything
or anyone
or myself.

But really in all of that
the whole point
was to not need
because nobody and nothing
was taking care of
the good girl.

Him
written July 8th, 2021

This is painful stuff, for me to post. I need to get this out of my "In Process Notebook" and into the "Finished Notebook." For me part of ptsd is avoiding anything about the trauma. I don't even want to call him my father, but that is who this is about. There are not graphic details of trauma in this writing, but there is some graphic language. I would avoid it if words can trigger you. Please feel free to skip this one and move on to something else.

-----------------

The other day, I stood in the kitchen, and had velveeta on saltines, a snack indelibly associated with, him, like the big hershey bars with almonds, that he kept in the cupboard over his junk drawer filled with screws and nails, with the shoe polish for our Sunday shoes kept below.

I can smell the shoe polish, unexpectedly real, that drawer and the shoe polish, and my soul recoils, instinct to flee as far away as I can get. There are memories, of him, that I have practiced remembering, until I don't flinch, at the thought of him, in my home - in my mind - in me still.

This isn't one of them. This one comes crashing through me, like a tidal wave, the love and the hurt. If it was just one, love -or- hurt, it would be bearable, perhaps, but that is not what this is, one or the other.

Love and hurt, together, shatter me, over and over, and I am broken glass, on that kitchen floor, all over again. I resolve, to practice this memory, practice him, until I can walk over the glass of these memories, keeping the smile on my face, and not want to flee.

Being we with
November 17th, 2021

It can be a cold solitary world
but sometimes we are blessed
with people we can be we with

the sparkles and starlight
normally hidden inside
can burst out in dazzling displays

these lonely souls in all of us
can be seen for a brief moment
be known by another we are we with

some of these we may last
but most don't
seems to be the sad fact

so I wish moments of being we with
for you and I and we
moments we treasure and hold onto

for those long years we are we without
waiting for the alignment of the heavens
for a moment again of being we with.

Moments in my day
written August 7th, 2021

1.
I wake up
and look out the window
at the morning sun
shining through the leaves.

I look out the window again
and it is the dusk sky of day's end.
The day has gone somewhere
to someone.

2.
I sit and stare out the
half-circle window.
Somehow I
have arrived here
so I stay.
I'm not sure
where or when I am.
I don't move.
I wait for someone
to say it is ok
and hope
they don't notice me
if it is not.

3.
I am writing
about touching a man.
I write: "I grab him by the...."
and stop to think about what word to write.
One of the others inside boisterously says
It's an ***, grab him by the ***
it can't be those other words,
grab him by the ***!
I blush and don't write
"bottom" or "*****" or "buttocks"
I write: "I grab him by the ***."
The other is satisfied
and lets me continue on my own.

4.
I am suddenly in the body.
I am in bed with a man.
The others don't let me out
if it is dangerous,
so I smile and say "Hi."
He does *** things to me
and it does feel good, I think.
He has learned to say,
"Are you ok?" every few minutes.
I say, "Yes, I'm ok."

5.
I look through my binder of poems.
I know it is me writing here every single time.
I recognize the handwriting,
but even if it is dated yesterday
I don't remember writing the words.

6.
I am inside and hear
one of the others
I share this body with
giggle.
I come out to note
that I do not giggle,
because I do not giggle!
Then I go back inside
letting the one who giggles
giggle and be herself
in the body we share.

The real me
written July 1st, 2021

I sit on a low bluff
looking out at the ocean in Goa
age 18 and away from home
for the first time.

I can see sitting beside me
a version of me who is
female - compassionate - loving
my skirts and my bangles
the anklets Shankar and Ana gave me
soft and round and surprised
I want to be intimate with a boy.
This is the real me.

I see sitting on the other side of me
another version of me
who is sure they are the real me
male - logical - unemotional
calm under pressure.
My life is planned out
I will be an engineer like my uncle
interested in ideas and not people.
This is the real me.

Some "I"
sits on that low bluff
and sees both of us
for the first time
and it is a wonder.
There are no words for this yet
but these both are
the real me and in time
we will find more
of us.

This is the real me.

I want
written July 10th, 2020

I want blue skies
and sun on my face.

I want green plants
growing like crazy on the deck.

I want rooms full of books
like old friend and lovers.

I want someone
to wear perfume for at night.

I want to not be scared
lost in the past.

I want to be here now.

I want to always know
that I am home and whole.

I want all parts of me
to realize their dreams.

I want to be known.

I want to never stop wanting.

I want to want.


What do you want?

I don't want to
written March 14th, 2021

I don't want to
is the poem that doesn't want
to be written today
I don't want to
think write cry.

I look through
my unfinished notebook and
I don't want to
process revise reveal.
I don't want to!

I don't want to write
the same words
again and again
these same things
battering at my mind
day after day.

I don't want to pretend
everything is beautiful
just (pretend to) be happy.
I don't want
to be here lost in my head.

I don't want to
is the poem
that wants
to be written today.

~white clouds nesting dark rocks
—Cold Mountain, The Collected Songs of Cold Mountain

Dark rocks
written November 7th, 2021

Dark rocks rest
in a river bed
as rushing water
froths white in agitation
over their dark peaceful presence.

Dark rocks steadfastly witness
fish tails flickering
velvet deer noses drinking
and cicadas singing
as the moon sets
and the sun rises.

Nothing is lost.
Nothing is wasted.
All is known and seen
somewhere
in the depths
by dark rocks
resting.

together again
written November 9th, 2021

the terrifying silence
crashes around me
I'm afraid I will
be broken into pieces
that can't be put back
together again

I've done this before
pieced myself
together again
but I get so tired
of the fear that the
breaking will never end

Why there are cicadas - a tinnitus story
written November 1st, 2021

One day there was a small child
who woke up in the night
to the sound of cicadas.
Her grownup comes in to check on her.
The small child doesn't talk very much.
She looks at the grownup and rubs her ears.

Her grownup asks, "Does the noise bother you?"
The small child nods yes.
The small child's eyes ask...
Why is it there?
What does it mean?
Why does it never stop?

Her grownup smiles and tells her...
Those are cicadas dear one
they knew that sometimes
you were lonely and afraid
so they came
hundreds of them
thousands of them
to keep you company
so you would never be alone.

If you wake up
and wonder if you are safe
just listen for the cicadas.
I know they are loud sometimes
they just want to be sure
you know they are there
so relax into the sound
float on it knowing
you are not alone
and go back to sleep dear one.

Breathing space
written November 3rd, 2021

Space stretches
into the distance
I send my breath
towards you

soft like a breeze
tickling your hair
embracing you
pooling around you
making this space

for you
to be
to rest
to feel peace
a breathing space.

I am not an apology
started June 9th, 2021

I wanted this poem
to be a song declaring
that I am not an apology
but I am not there yet

I feel like something born then broken
spending my life apologizing
for not being able to fix myself
for not being what people wanted

Trying to stave off danger and hurt
I hurl apologies at the world
and the people in it.
I am sorry for being me.
.
.
.
One day
I want to stand here
in all my broken glory
for the world to see
and not apologize.

~I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in.
—Portia Nelson, "Autobiography in Five Short Chapters"

My own four experiences with holes
written October 5th, 2021

1.
I walk down a road
I fall into a hole
This happens a few times
I stop walking down roads.

2.
I get tired of being stuck in one place
I decide to try again.
I walk down a road
A different road than before
I know holes can happen
I keep my eyes on my feet
Just in case.

3.
I walk down roads
I carefully keep a list
of roads with holes
It is always in my mind
Is this a safe road?
Will it be safe today?

4.
I walk down a road with a friend
I forget to check if it's a safe road
We are talking and laughing
Then I realize
This is that very first road
the one with that big hole.

Did we not notice and walk around it?
Did we float over it?
Is the hole gone?
Will it come back?

So many questions.
All I really know is
I am grateful for
the moments of not worrying about holes
while laughing with a friend.

~In the cave of the ear, the bones, like stars
at the solstice, sit upright and still,
listening in on the air as the muscle and blood
listen in on the skeleton.
—Robert Bringhurst, "The Song of Ptahhotep," Gift of Tongues

This body which is mine
written June 1st, 2021

For too long
my body has listened for
phantom danger coming my way
my body tensed waiting.

Now I am training myself
to listen to the sound
of my solid solitary bones
the soft drumming of my blood
rushing and cresting
in the shores of my body.

I listen as my muscles
stretch and contract
moving lungs and limbs
part of the symphony
coordinated by my brain.

I listen to my body
and learn to hear the beauty
the coordinated song
of muscle and blood
bones and brain
wrapped in my soft skin
the miracle of this body
which is mine.

floating and fleeing
written August 13th, 2021

floating and fleeing
I spin through the air
my hair flying out
my head thrown back

spinning and teasing
my throat exposed
to the graze of your teeth
catch me if you can

playing and following
far away from the world
until your hands
anchor me here and now

touching and caressing
each other.

Of me—Being
written August 15th, 2021

Usually I have
no time or place
floating in the ether
until I whisper
my name
in your ear.

For a brief moment I am
here and now
known
anchored to this
time and place
with you.

In the index of my life
this moment will be listed
as one of the rare
occurrences
of me—
Being.

My body mine
written August 13th, 2021

I stand in the shower feeling
my hands on my body
the water on my hands
me in my body mine

my mind flies away
as it is so practiced in doing
1 time, 2 times, 26 times
I gently return

my mind back to my body
my body back to my hands
my hands back to the water
my presence back into my body

27 times and 28 times
until one day
however many times it takes
124 times or 1,238 times

I can stay here
with this body
that is
my body mine.

~I felt pain like an assault,
The old pain again
When the world thrusts itself inside,
when we have to take in the outside
—May Sarton, "Night Watch," Collected Poems

The world thrusts itself inside
written June 26th, 2021

The world rages through me
I wrap my arms around
cradling this body amongst the
flowers torn, leaves shredded, plants uprooted

until the fury passes
peace descends on the broken
some breath and start to mend
others their decay feeds the new.

The world thrusts itself
inside each of us
tearing and stretching
throw your head back and rage

with the pain and agony
of growth made possible
by the world tearing open
body, heart, and mind.

I never grow used to this
brutal process,
I dip my fingers into
the holes made in our heart.

The world has its way with us
this relentless thrusting ******
until we spill out over everything
this our mark on the world.

Falling into
written July 7th, 2021

always a child      
never a child      
without a face      
suspended in this twilight      
no-where and in no-time      
floating in air      
my faith is      
the tight grasp        
keeping you from      
falling into the abyss      
where children are crushed      
like fallen fruit—      
or am I keeping you    
from falling into grace?

Deception
written July 17th, 2021

I write deception
fabricating fictions
layer after layer of
perverse prevarications
surrounding my subject
with inventions and evasions
so that the truth
can be revealed
in the serpentine curves
of these words.

The unknown in me
written July 22nd, 2021

I collect words
and try to fit them
to my experiences

trying to capture
this moment right now—
it is all I have.

I—looks at the page
and writes a moment
while others peer over her shoulder

shaking their heads
curling up to sleep from the overwhelm
reaching out to change a word or phrase

we are all here
sometimes all at once
other times one at a time

I always think I know
who writes these words
this   word   right   now

Until I look back
and don't recognize
words just written

I guess we are used to it
the wonder and startlement of
the unknown in me.

Koan me
July 24th, 2021


Who is writing this?

I am.

--------

Who wrote that?

I did.

River rushing below bluffs
written July 7th, 2021

I dream of the bluffs
we visited that day
the river rushing below
demarcating freedom

these years of practicing
flying away across fields
in preparation for this night
have made my wings strong

can I reach the bluffs?
float out over the river below?
escape these fields and rows
encompassing my life

I fly towards my future
until wings collapse trembling
on the edge of becoming
or breaking into pieces
I fall to the ground

Not to the bluffs
with the river rushing below
not this time
but one night soon
with these wings being made strong.

Poet after poet
written July 10th, 2021

Day by day, and poem by poem
my home and my life
fill with friends and lovers
who took the time to write to me
through the years and distances.

Jane Kenyon sits
on the corner of
my dining room table
a pool of calm
for me to dip into
anytime I need.

113 poets (I counted)
from Copper Canyon Press
are in residence between the covers
of The Gift of Tongues.
They enliven the desk where I write
always falling into respectable order
when I peak in before writing.

Mary Oliver, Pablo Neruda
Olga Broumas, W S Merwin
and other dear friends
sit on my shelves
sometimes amiably discussing
other times heatedly debating
each other's sock choices.

George Bilgere, Ellen Bass
and Gregory Orr
have seduced me
filling me with awe
as they stimulate my mind
my lovers far away
who talk to me in chapbooks.

Poet after poet
I wonder how many
I have not met
because I have not found them yet
or they were not preserved or published.

I bow my head
in a moment of grateful silence
to those known and unknown
who make my world
a more lively place.

Fatigue
written July 16th, 2021

Fatigued
I swim
up through the years

overshooting
into a desert dry
future wasteland

so I dive
back down
trying to reach

today.

Sudden Grace
written July 6th, 2021

I wait
for these moments
of sudden grace

   light piercing dark storm clouds
   a perfect note improbably held in song
   the golden hawk on a suburban tree branch

when suddenly
I can breath.

The stars hold in their place
written March 27th, 2020

Now I lay me down to sleep
in this safe warm soft bed.

I lay on the bed
and feel the surface gently cradling
the parts of my body
heel calf thigh hips shoulders head.

I pull up the covers
to hold me and wrap around me
keeping me warm and safe
through the night.

I smooth the soft plushy over me
then snuggle it up to my chin.

I glance beside me to see my favorite stuffie
my long-time companion
who always sleeps with me.

"Alexa, play Pandora"
and soft music fills the cool room
this haven of safety and calm.

I sigh and close my eyes in peace.

The stars overhead no longer spin
but hold in their place.

The universe cradles me as I sleep
in depths of peace.

~She said "Hello?" and only the echoes returned her greeting.
—Erin Morgenstern, The Starless Sea

Only the echoes answer back
written March 24th, 2020

She cries out to the depths
   opening her heart
   saying the unsaid things
   screaming in her muteness
   sighing her pain
   cradling her isolation
   begging for answers
   calling for connection
   giving voice to the wanting
And only the echoes answer back.

~who shuts our eyes in calms of beastlike sleep.
—John Balaban, "Riding Westward", Gift of Tongues

Spinning off self after self
written April 20th, 2020

After a lifetime
of being afraid
to close my eyes
for what demons
might come
while I sleep
unable to defend myself

I ask who will protect us
as we sleep
unguarded
from the terrors of the past?

I shuffle through selves
like cards in a deck
spinning off self after self
searching for just one
who can close their eyes
in calms of beastlike sleep.

Stars spinning overhead
written June 16th, 1997

stars spinning overhead
the trials start each night

it seems this once stable earth
has become a wild carnival ride

as i lay me down to sleep
i pray the lord my soul to keep

each night this seeming reality
plunges me deeper into fright

like a never ending free-fall
drowning without dying

ever persistent these things in the night
what more do i have to give?

awake until i'm dizzy
till i finally take to my bed

but it seems that nothing
can protect me in the night

from the stars spinning overhead

Fragile beating heart
written November 8th, 1997, 1am

What would you do,
if every day of your life,
you carried with you,
your fragile beating heart?

Each day new risks,
that a bump or strong breeze,
might give wound to,
your fragile beating heart.

(Imagine trying to manage that and a briefcase.)

Yet you make your way,
through each day,
and finally at evening to home,
your fragile beating heart intact.

Each dusk, the time worn ritual,
of mending the wounds of,
tending the scrapes of,
your fragile beating heart.

Then finally to sleep,
everything secured and locked down,
body, mind, soul,
and fragile beating heart.

But really...

How long could you go on?
If every day of your life,
you had to carry with you,
your fragile beating heart?

from Webster's: Totem(n) - among some peoples, an animal or natural object taken as the symbol of a family or clan.

Totem scenes: My real home
written November 5th, 1997

I wonder
what is a real home?
It's a question I used to think
I knew the answer to.

My real home growing up
was of course the one I lived in
where bits of pottery and votive candles
formed totem scenes on end tables.

There was a mystery to these totem scenes:
candle stick, corn husk doll, pottery bowl;
all arranged according to some greater pattern
that I didn't understand, but knew was pivotal.

Each day, I came home from school
putting all the things in their places
clearing away anything that didn't belong
in the totem scenes.

Then I would dust,
moving each item from its place:
ornament, woven bowl, carved animal;
and polish with lemon scented Pledge.

I'd then return, each totem item
carefully back to its appointed place
trying to place each in the same place and order
as it had been in before.

But inside I always worried,
No . . . I knew that
because I didn't understand the greater pattern
of where each item belonged,

somehow my false reproductions
of the totem scenes
cracked the very foundation
of my real home.

My fear is light pink
written April 26th, 1995

my fear is light pink
light pink painted over the walls
of the room i grew up in

a child's room painted pastel pink
the color of cotton candy
a nice color for a little girl
a little girl

little (from webster's)
small in size, amount, degree
small in importance or power
short in duration

a child small in size, amount, and degree
dependent on those around her
little body trying to hide
never succeeding

a child small in importance or power
little fists balled up
lacking physical power
lacking importance or value

a childhood short in duration
when do children become adults?
when the damage has been too great?

those little years
that are now the basis
of the rest of my long life
a life that sometimes feels like an eternity

pink is
the color of early sunsets
candy hearts at valentine's day
beads in a child's necklace
and the color of my fear
my fear

fear wrapped around me
surrounding me
blinding me with its
sickening sweet color
ever-present

not just any child
a girl child
me

Definitions of hurt
written March 14th, 2021

My story is not
of physical violence and love withheld.
My story
is of violation and love mixed together.

When love is defined that way
with things that don't leave marks
on a child afraid to cry
different definitions of hurt
are learned by the body - by my body.

You reach out to touch my *****
I say, "Please don't hurt me"
you say, "I would never hurt you"
and then you touch me
pushing things into me
not understanding
that my body learned
my body knows
my body screams in pain
at that intimate touch that
the world defines as pleasure

"Don't hurt me?" I ask
you don't understand
my definition of hurt
my inability to say
I know you would want me to say
certainly any sane adult would say

"No. That hurts. Stop. I don't want this."

Happy endings
written June 8th, 2021

I think about stories
with happy endings
that everyone recognizes
as appropriate and proper.

It is what people expect
resolution, the good guys win
happiness rules the day
the story is complete.

My life is a story
which I write in my poems
though I am not sure
what the ending will be.

I want to tell my story
with the ending unknown
I need for this
to be enough.

I wouldn't save much except...
written January 22nd, 2021

There is not much
I want to save from my childhood
growing up in a small farm town
except for...

Sunsets exploding gently over the fields
colors rolling as far as the eye could see
red orange yellow pink
marking the transition
from day into night.

Sitting on that swing
hung on the swing-set
we used to play on as children.
I would sit there at night
staring up at the stars
imagining the night air
wrapped around me
like a blanket.

Books sitting outside our garage
when I got off the bus
donations for my mom's club
would I find rabbits that talked?
architect's grand visions?
those books my ticket
to far off worlds.

Neighbors and pets
in the yards around ours
part of the fabric
of my life day to day
running through their yards
playing with their dogs
wondering about their lives
so close to mine.

The plum tree
  that profusely gave us
  bushels of plums one summer
   then died.
The walnut tree that my father
   and then the squirrels thought
   was a fantastic idea.
The raspberries
   that never made it into the house
   because I ate them
   still warm from the sun.

The ballet in Chicago with my dad
magical every time
but sitting at eye level that first time
for the Nutcracker
and being taken away
by dance, costumes, sets, and music
to a fantastical world.

Playing stamps
with Grandpa
in early elementary school.
I was the quiet child
He always said
he didn't know how
to spell the countries either
but I think he really did know.

There is not much
I want to save from my childhood
except for these things
which make me smile
and transport me
to happy moments
which did exist.

~And everyday it was difficult, walking around and knowing that people saw me one way, knowing that they were wrong, so completely wrong, that the real me was invisible to them. It didn't even exist to them.
   So: If nobody sees you, are you still there?
—Akwaeke Emezi, The Death of Vivek Oji

Visible
written June 5th, 2021

I slowly approach
the idea of
being visible
after a lifetime of
being afraid
of being seen.

Being invisible
is a kind of protection.
If I can be invisible
disappear even to myself
maybe the pain
won't exist.

I can testify
to the pain still felt
even when
holding perfectly still
invisible to the world.

Self is something
we are alone with
by our selves
but also
something we are
in relation
with others.

I reach out with this poem
to declare my self
to you.
To claim my space
in this world.
To begin to reveal
me.

Time reveals
written May 25th, 2021

Time gradually reveals
treasures dear
lines of poetry
flows of water
buds on the tree

they feed the soul
if patience perseveres
polishing
raw painful shards
until they crack open
revealing glorious brilliance
that shines briefly

time dearest
just another day
another second
hold on
for time to reveal
her treasures.