all the ways I drown in silence
as lifeboats climb trees
the tidal pull, the listen for you
but wave after wave of mute breath
while your forests are alive with float
songs of save, so far away
sink, sink in salty quiet
none of your life lines reach
they play melodies in trees
and I struggle
wordless rip current
desolate sea
silences me
almost together
white drops yellow
little bits of time
off beat seasons
float clouds fall
pieces, pieces letting
go, windy teardrops
autumn rain, hush
the leaving, bareness
grips broken air
cold returns truth
gone, can’t hold on
falling apart
in the days between believe and break
the sun rose dark and painted shadows
trees bowed and let go of all they held
bare fingers pointing any and no way
and all that was once held together by time
let fly the wind and broke into pieces
of nothing sinking deeper in the deep within
and cracks spilled hope in freezing drops
bottom chased chained below motionless
curtains drawn, she never left her bed.
Don’t tell me your story;
it’s written in shadows
gripping your face, and
the way you twist the trash
bag of everything you
own around your wrist.
15-years-old, but I see
just a boy, shivering in
short sleeves. They took
your sweatshirt away
when you tried to hang yourself
with it, before you flung
yourself out a second story
window. he’s okay, they said,
but he’s not okay. I see his face.
I know broken, and he looks
down at the floor. I have
the file that says no one
wants to claim him, they’ve
all given up. He’s the state’s
child now, and the state can’t
hold your hand. The file knows
secrets he tries to keep, about
abuse and neglect that led him here.
He glances up, and I catch his eye –
yes, I see you. I smile, a little, you’re
safe for tonight. I sit down and he breathes
this day he needs to leave behind.
I know…but there is paperwork to be
done. We need history, diagnosis, all
the information required. This boy,
my patient, is tired in so many ways.
It’s past midnight before he’s processed
and admitted. He’s so weary, sleep is
welcome. But as I walk away, I wonder
if he thought – no one asked me why.
torrent churns
(through) green, blue,
lashing upon itself,
reflecting (me) invisible
flow stop crash turn twist
journey ~ day and night,
(lost) shadows, white water
secrets, sun (behind), and
(always) the pull of the
(drowning) water. (shadow
me)
The first time was at dusk. The Hudson River stretched
like an invitation in the gentlest glow, both banks’
forest green arms holding me, as I rose with the bridge.
And at the top, nightfall’s vision sang, and I held,
floated there, watching the city catch the river.
Her skyscrapers gathered and huddled and whispered
of the night to come, and began to switch on spots
of bright into the fading light. And beside, tiny, immense
Liberty stood, knowing the city and flowing the river,
and lifted us all across the bridge.
When I returned, it was morning. The light was harsher,
less forgiving. The climb to the top of the bridge seemed
steeper, somehow, for us all. And I saw signs, along
the railings, read them. “Don’t give up. There is hope.
Call the hotline.” Street signs. Bridge signs. Signs.
At the top: “Do not jump.” On this, the North side, only
the river, the fall. And the ghosts that had put all the signs
on the bridge. I could still see them jumping. And my car
would not float but wanted to stop and fling its doors
open for me. But the sign said, “Do not jump.”
ones that walk away without saying good-bye (good-bye)
leave me shiver the rain (looking for shadows)
reasons like questions wrap me still (you left)
empty trains ride the know (without me)
the bench of the station, cold iron feel (alone)
blankness of silence, fog of your go (I wait)
no words you left, no solace or explain (mined hollow)
just gone, only gone, words secured with you (I fall)
disappeared and all, away, and spared nothing (not me)
walk away within
inside, through and stop
wait, hold and go
away and away
fall and watch, wonder
hurt, pause, see fly
hope and then hope
collapse
(wake up) not asleep, but reading,
(write) she sits the edge of my bed,
tilts her head, waits. silence. (think it
to know). Sylvia, i am tired.
(the write will you), but how,
(ask the sky). and she stays,
to feel, asking cry (I know). pulls
what i push down (inside rain),
closing windows on day (tumble words),
and in sleep of dark, my name, cloud
whisper, pen gripped unwritten (Sylvia),
fly, write us both home (again).
She jumped, but the air didn’t care,
and the clouds never reached down,
just sighed, and looked away. And she
tumbled, arms flailing, hair wound
across her motionless face. But
the ground didn’t care, so it never
flinched when she hit, or cried out in
sorry, or caught her less broken.
The ground ignored her fall, her splayed
limbs and all the cracks that bled invisible.
Time didn’t care that she was frozen,
so she became the fall. No one noticed.
neighborhood/
I will try to see you/
with more than gray eyes/
when Spring returns
Doctor: I saw how you tossed my file
across the desk, and all of the papers
spilled out onto the floor. Symbolic.
But you, you were annoyed, that you
had to pick up my pieces and jam them
back in the file, weren’t you? I know.
I heard your annoyed sigh as I walked
away, and you reminded me, again,
that I could find another doctor.
And all I was trying to do was make it
out the door without letting slip
the torrent of tears that began to build
back in your office, when you said,
“You make my job difficult.” I lost
my words then, so you continued:
“And how I am supposed to work
around this eating disorder thing,
or whatever it is?” My eyes were
on the floor, but I still saw your look
of disgust at my 100 pound body.
And did I even care how hard it was
on you that I didn’t want to take more pills,
but for God’s sake did I realize I have
a brain tumor, a divorce, no family here,
I am not sleeping or eating….and, you, doctor,
said five prescriptions are what I need.
When I said I just needed time and support,
you said I was difficult and uncooperative.
And I stopped speaking because,
what could I say? And you called me
noncompliant, that I was tying your hands
behind your back in attempt to gain power,
and my mind whispered……no, i am trying
to survive. But you didn’t hear, because
you were drawing up a document for me
to sign that said if I kill myself, you are not
legally liable. I signed it.
so I could leave. you never looked
at my face. or you might
have known
the damage
you
did
to
me
been pushed around by darkness
for decades and for days,
nights go on for weeks,
stillness that sits like moss
on granite in the shade
days pass, slowly wait,
knowing no change, only
time dragging me to night
where waiting crashes and falls
and certain death takes me
every night, leaving a trembling
girl curled in the middle of the bed
to face more of what, that,
nothing, shattered windows and
boarded up doors, hope doesn’t
stop here anymore, shadows
chase, sharp numbness
overtakes, stripped bare
and broken by tidal waves.
I found a perfect shell on the beach, all the edges
were smooth, the corners just right. She was the palest
pink, like the sky before sun appears, and her
ridges were spaced just right, as if carved by a sculptor.
No sand clung to her, for she was too smooth to mar.
As I held her to my cheek, and she whispered,
“Empty inside.” Did she speak of herself?
Or me? I slipped her in my pocket,
as a way to hide.
release the last breath
of hope, like a balloon into
the grayest sky. never
return. deep, heaving sobs
of grief in a hollow ribcage.
float. no one. disappearing
led to this. a cliff. didn’t even
have to jump. searing pain
of gone. a push. and
nothing.
My photos are out of focus.
I can’t stop taking pictures of clouds.
My clothes are getting bigger,
nights getting longer.
I sleep with four blankets
to keep me from drifting away.
And there’s one pillow under my head,
and one pillow over, to keep things out.
Nights are too long,
filled with bad dreams about being chased,
and falling, and turning to stone.
Places with happy people make me cry.
That’s not normal, you know.
I broke my favorite mug.
My hand dropped it,
and the lighthouse
was in a hundred
pieces. I can’t
pick them up.
I just sit
on the
floor
with
them.
Willful canyons carved
of bones beneath flesh,
rise and fall marking empty
spaces, outside and inside.
Once a smooth landscape,
now stark desert land,
sharp angles of deprivation,
ribs like ridges of carved rock
punished by anger
and the ravages of sun’s glare.
Punish the landscape
by withholding food, and it
rewards with new sharp angles,
art of light and darkness
over bones and flesh,
covering emptiness.
started to write
good bye
letter this morning, but then
i remembered
i had an appointment to convince you
that i’m ok
that i’m not a danger to myself
i can’t cancel
or you might worry that there’s something wrong
so i put myself together
picking up all of the pieces from the floor
and i’m here
before i left, i checked – clean clothes, clean hair, clean teeth
i know what you look for
normal
but as i’m telling you i’m ok i start to notice cracks in my normal
my socks don’t match, my nail polish is peeling, scratches all over my arms
i am not convincing
myself
but you let me go when i assure you i will return in one week
i leave
relieved and scared, normal enough to return
to finish
writing
my
good-bye
letter
Creeps like a fog over an early
morning harbor, settles in, leaving all
beneath it damp and cold.
Hovers and follows, even if
sun can push it aside, it stays,
dark clouds and low rumbles that never
leave, reminders of following
darkness.
Even inside it lurks, with every
light bulb on, shadows haunt corners,
follow always.
The fog, dark clouds, thunder, shadows,
the darkness stays because it is inside.
It is in every dropped tear, each unanswered
phone call, every minute spent staring
at the wall.
Lives in dark hopelessness hidden
in seemingly ordinary days, threatening
to break and crash like a massive wave
of uncontrolled sadness.
Shadows are always there.
Good morning….echoes throughout my blog which has yet to find readers 😉 . That’s ok. I will continue to share. If you write it, they will come, right? Well, maybe…
“I have learned now that while those who speak about ones miseries usually hurt, but those who keep silence hurt more. ”
― C.S. Lewis
This is what I am contemplating today. There are times I want to hide and run away and hear only silence for days. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I want to be dropped off in the middle of the forest somewhere, such is my need to escape the chaos around me. Do other people feel the same? I don’t know. Some people thrive upon it, I think.
When I feel bad, really bad, like the kind of bad where I am spending hours with the pillow over my head and purposely stepping in front of speeding cars, I don’t want to talk to anyone. I don’t want to hear from anyone. I want to be ALONE. And yet, somewhere inside I know that isolation is not the answer. I have to force myself to talk to people, to step outside the house.
And, usually, the things I least want to talk about the the things I need to talk about most….
Talking to the Clouds 