...

The tears come in quiet moments.
When the night has fallen and the stars awake in the sky;
when the city goes to bed, and the clock creeps slowly on to midnight.

Finally alone -- and I cry.

I cry for the sorrow, the hatred.
The pain. For the hunger and sickness -- for the loss.
But mostly

I cry for the children.

...

I can't explain my life to you. The pain. The fear. The constant exhaustion that never goes away.
Until it all becomes a sort of fog, where I'm choking, but I don't care.

You can't understand it. You can empathize -- and for your compassion, I am grateful.
But you can't understand.

I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you cannot.
Because to understand? You have to live this.

I pray you never live this way.

#YesAllWomen...

i don't want to be a victim.
i don't want to be running scared,
walking through the world like there's a target on my back,
worried that someday, somewhere, someone is waiting.
watching.
waiting.
waiting for the perfect moment -- to strike.

i don't want to be paranoid. i don't want to be afraid;
constantly re-living the past. always aware of an unknown -- unseen -- unnamed --
threat.

because that's how i've been living.
that's what i've become.
this is the world that i inhabit, that i understand, that i know appears irrational
-- but i also know to be horribly. nightmarishly.
real.

living with depression and all that comes with it...

Things that go bump in the night go bump in the day;

the difference so little that time slips away

-- exhaustion.

when...

this world can drive you mad.

we see and hear and feel and live in a world
of mad people,
driven to a never ending insanity
by sights and sounds and touches,
a pulsing fever of thoughts -- like a heartbeat.

questions.
what is real.
what is not.
what should be said and what should be kept
(tortuously) quiet
 -- keep them from going mad.
like you.

I am Nobody. are you -- Nobody -- too?
who. are. we.
the madness of wondering and worrying and waiting and watching -- something -- that will never come.
the world and the wold (for the mind is such a place) and the window closing -- closing -- closing.

don't tell. don't tell, don't tell, don't tell -- keep it secret.

keep it safe.

destruction...

What is it about us that makes us so violent?
Not in an every-single-person-in-the-world-is-going-to-buy-a-gun-and-kill-innocent-people kind of way, but in an oh-my-gosh-I-suck
kind of way.

Imagine. Imagine
every
single
mean,
cruel
lie you have ever told yourself as a
fist slamming against your soul.

Ouch.

I am not a violent person. I cried when I hit a bird while driving, and I cried harder when I saw a mother hit her little boy at the zoo. I can't kill spiders, both out of fear and out of sorrow for crushing them. I can't tell someone how I think because I'm afraid I'll hurt the person's feelings. I don't like conflict of any kind -- yet conflict has entrenched itself in my brain.

My soul is black and blue with lies.

Black and blue, splotched and scarred. A jumbled residue of impact over a decade.

It began one morning when I looked in the mirror and became aware of myself as flawed -- as imperfect. No longer the little angel who thought only about ponies and princes and puffy ball gowns. No longer daddy's princess and mommy's little helper.
It began one morning and it

never.


stopped.

I would say that mirrors are the culprit -- with no mirror, no reason to pick things apart. But it's
more than a mirror.

It's the mind.

The mind recognizing self as lesser,
seeing pictures and programs of better, of ideal.
Of perfect.

The mind believing those things -- believing the lies and accepting them as fact. The mind punching and smacking and hurting
the soul in which it resides.


The soul is strong -- so is the mind.
Battered, battered souls and shattered, shattered minds -- why?

Why are we so destructive? Why do we kill and kill what we are in favor of what we think we should be? Because think we should be may never be who we are -- or who we are meant to be.

all in the phrase...

Words. put the individuals together and form a phrase -- because even Words are stronger together.

The hardest thing...

How often has this phrase crossed my lips:
This is the hardest thing I've ever done...age 13, watching all of my best friends walk away...
This is the hardest thing I've ever done...age 15, suffering a nervous breakdown...
This is the hardest thing I've ever done...age 18, disappointment -- not good enough...
This is the hardest thing I've ever done...age 19, working through the scars of abuse...
This is the hardest thing I've ever done...age 20, "a mission is not for you"...

hardest things, hardest things, so many hardest things -- "this is the hardest thing I've ever done."
Words that fit the circumstance at the time.

I look back and shake my head,
those are not the hardest things.

my Words evolve and change according to the hardest things of the present. No --
not the hardest things anymore -- look how far you've come! Yes --
how far I've come against the next hardest thing.

This is the hardest thing I've ever done...until there is something harder placed in my way.

it's all in the time of the phrase.

when I went for a run because I could...

Some storms begin with a small drop of water falling from the sky -- a slow sparkling crystal descending from the clouds to land with a slight splattering spread on the pavement. A storm that appears gradually, misting the earth and blocking the sun with its fog.

But this storm began without shining crystals or pavement drops bleeding into one another to create a single shining slate of asphalt. This storm began in her heart.

She felt it before she heard it. A cold, hard stinging inside her chest; a sharp, tight pulsing in her brain.

It's going to rain.

Down from the sky-- barrage of hammers on the rooftop --
down from the clouds -- volley of bullets against the walls!

Down,
down,
down
down!

Out, out, out -- out into the rain.

Running...running. Bare feet against the pavement.
Running...running. Hair plastered to her cheeks.
Running...running. Clothes clinging as though naked.
Running...running. Skin screaming with the sting.

Run. Run. Run. Run. Repeating
in her mind, racing through the storm. Racing through the storm running from the rain through the rain to the rain
the rain the rain the rain

The rain.

Cold, biting, stinging rain -- rain that is alive.
Cold, biting, stinging rain.
Cold. Biting. Stinging.
Cold. Biting.
Cold.

Cold.


Cold.

She can feel it. Feel. the cold. the bite. the sting.

the life.

Time -- what time? No time -- running. running. raining.

Hair streaming, hands shaking, feet bleeding, lips speaking
words she cannot hear. Stumbling, tumbling, crumbling on the porch
wet
wet
wet
with rain.

The rain.

All she wants is rain.

missing...

I often write when I think of you.
Amid the notes and to do lists
scribbles of ink form
pictures on paper,
disjointed words and phrases paired
with drawings and figures that make no sense
to an outsider.

Capturing these thoughts is hard now.
Or, to be honest, harder than it was before.
Thoughts spin so fast that
sometimes I can merely feel.
It all seems silly and childish --
this strange loss.
Because, really,
you're not lost --

you're just not here.

...

We are shadow people.

Shadows cast by dusty suns of history,
spreading dark across the cobbled streets
that link we to them.

Shadow people slipping through petal-less gardens,
purple symphony of damp blue springs
creeping from then to now.

Our whispers dress the sky, soaring up
with the voices of faceless and ageless
memories.

We are shadows of the past,
mixing the old and the new. Creating worlds
of thought and innovation -- innovation rooted in time.

We are shadows of the past. Dreams of what has been.
And what will be.

not today...

Woke up early -- not tired a bit. Got up, got dressed, got it under control.  Cute hair, cute dress, cute shoes, cute girl. Ready for another day.

Not ready for the questions.

They came from all directions. Concerned faces, hushed voices, worried looks and whispers.

How's your dad?
How's your family?
What did the doctors say?
What treatments is he getting?
What changes has he made?
Is he happy? Is he sad?
Are you all doing okay?
Is there anything we can do?
How's your mom?
How are your sisters?
(but worst)
How are YOU?

Sympathetic hands laid upon my arm, hugs and promises and ever more questions.

DON'T TOUCH ME I don't scream,
GO AWAY I don't say.

They believe that they are being kind. Which is why I answer -- wrote and boring -- but it's what they want to hear.

He's fine. He's tired.
They're all busy.
Shots. Pills.
Doctors. Bills.
Happy, yes. Sad, no.
Okay -- I assume so. I'm not home much.
I don't know -- I don't live at home -- I don't know what they need.
She's tired.
They're busy.
(they wait expectantly)
I'm fine, too.

I don't tell them that I'm tired. I don't tell them to go away. Instead, I go.

Left church early -- couldn't stand it anymore. Held back tears -- didn't want to explain. Escaped the people and the words and the problem they all want to dwell on. Stood under a tree and listened -- bees buzzing above my head, birds chirping in the bush, heat singing over the ground -- they ask nothing of me. No more questions.

Not today.

missing...

It's been a year.
That leaves one more.
They say that the second year flies by.
They, in this case, being everyone.
I hope they -- everyone -- are right.
I want this year to fly by.
I've got it all planned out:
to be busy --
so busy,
so caught up in living,
so ignorant of time --
busy enough that you sneak up on me.
One day you're there, and the next?
You'll be here again! A surprise.

missing...

I remember the day
you told me you always associated me
with the color brown.
You were so flustered by my reaction
(which I recall was one of confused laughter)
that you reminded me of the dress I wore
on our first date (to Homecoming). It was brown,
"like your hair."
We were almost the same height then.

How things change.

I remember the night
that you took me to a concert at the college.
We got bored after awhile,
so we found stairs up to the roof and danced
around and around.
No music but our laughter.
You were wearing green that night.
It brought out your eyes.

I remember the day
you were three hours late picking me up
for the dance.
You were always late -- it's the only thing
we ever fought about. But fighting with you
wasn't really fighting.
It was more like I would pretend I wasn't mad,
and you would guess that I was pretending. Then,
we talked about it.
You were never more than five minutes late again,
and I learned to be patient.

But I remember one other time when we fought.
It was backstage during the dance concert.
You found out a secret -- my only big secret.
It was a quiet fight,
each of us standing our ground without saying a word.
You left. I thought our friendship was over.
And then, you came back.
You found me crying because of the secret,
and because I was afraid I'd lost my best friend,
and because of that other boy.
That was the first time you held me,
and when you said that you loved me, I believed you.

I remember running through sprinklers,
dragging you shopping with me,
riding roller coasters and sharing curly fries,
harmonizing to Journey while you played with my hair,
sitting on the porch that night two summers ago,
watching Old Spice commercials on YouTube,
hearing you ask from the back seat of my car if I was happy.

I remember battling in water fights and Nerf gun wars,
forcing you to do your homework,
listening to you read to me when I was struggling,
watching you spin the ring you always wore,
eating the "mandillas" you were obsessed with,
repairing those silly moccasins you loved,
dancing and spinning while you sang the words to "Faithfully."

I remember how your little sisters adored you,
how your little brothers copied everything you did,
how you looked up to your older brother,
how well you treated your mother and respected your father,
how everyone loved you -- everyone.

I remember having you on my side through it all.
The good, the bad, the everything.
You never let me down -- I don't know how to repay that.

I remember you -- I never want to lose those memories.
In my heart I hope that someday, more will be made.

Richard's Trees...

It is his idea to go for an early evening stroll through the neighborhood. I protest at first, laughing at the crazy idea of going out in the below freezing temperatures. Then he opens the door. The outside world is draped in misty wonder, the lights dim and fluttery as their beams try to penetrate the fog. He has caught me, for it looks like a fairyland. He knows I can't resist a fairyland.

He hands me my coat and puts on his own. Opening the door, we step from the place of warm, human familiarity and into a chilly, enchanted land--the realm of the fairies. It is as strange and wondrous as any of the Seven Wonders of the World, but it is upon our doorstep.

At first we talk and even chase one another through the slippery, frosty mist that tingles as it touches our cheeks. He laughs as I exclaim at the beautiful patterns upon the leaves and fences; I laugh as he sings "Frosty the Snowman" at the top of his voice. "There isn't any snow to sing about!" I cry. "Well, you never know," he replies, "Maybe if we sing loud enough, your fairies will make it snow." He winks at me and begins to run again.

Soon we lapse into companionable silence. We walk in step with one another, listening to the crunch of ice and frost under our feet. It is impossible to tell the time--there is only the dull, shimmering glow of the streetlights in the fog.

On and on we walk, commenting on a particularly interesting icicle hanging from a tree branch or the way the blue and green and red of the Christmas lights on a fence bleed together in the misty air to form new colors. But mostly we just walk together, as we always do.

He stops suddenly. I stop a few paces ahead of him, turning to see what the matter is. "What's up?" I ask him. He shrugs and lets loose a breath. It creates a puff of white in front of his face. He does it a second time, then points a little ways ahead of us.

"What do you see?" he asks.

I walk to where he is standing and position myself to follow his line of sight. Ahead of us is the park. There is a smattering of trees before us, each one standing apart from its fellows. They have no line or pattern, but they fit together all the same. I study them for a time, trying to find a satisfying answer to his question.

"Well?" he says. "Well, what?" He laughs and moves to stand at my side, putting a hand on my shoulder and pointing again to the trees with the other, "Tell me what you see." I frown at him, "You'll laugh." He shakes his head, "Won't."

Squinting at the scene before me, I begin.

"I see figures, frozen by the night in their acts of life. See? That one, there. She is waiting, waiting for someone to come home. Over there, he remembers what it was to be young and free. Beyond them both, another pauses on the path of change before taking the step that will alter his life forever. And there, she holds inside tears that cannot yet be allowed to flow.

These figures, they're shrouded. Shrouded in the frost--shrouded in delicate, intricate, fragile life. Each life is so very different, as is the way of things. And yet, if you notice, each one is clothed in the same material. You see them? All clothed in diamond white. But look at them closer and you'll see that none is the same. All of the patterns are different. No ice crystal is the same. Neither is any human experience.

And so they stand there, paused in their time. They stand, waiting in the winter of their lives, praying for the tender touch of spring."

I am so caught up in the scene before me that I’m startled when I hear a soft chuckle. The magic is broken and I turn, a rush of anger rising at his laughter. "You said you wouldn't laugh," I remind him sharply.

He shakes his head as looks at me, an expression of amusement on his face. Again I feel upset, but then I notice the sadness creeping up in the corners of his eyes. The anger fades, and I wait for him to speak. He sighs again and stuffs his hands deep into his pockets. I wait still. Staring straight into my eyes, he speaks.

"You missed your calling in life."

Startled, I reply, "My calling?"

"Yes," he walks toward the trees. Glancing over his shoulder, he smiles at me, "You should have been a poet." I laugh and wave away the praise, "Poets only make an income after they're dead." He laughs too, and then returns his gaze to the trees. He gestures to the trees and speaks again.

"When you look at the world, you see people. A frost-covered tree isn't just a frost-covered tree. It's...it's more than that. It becomes a person with a story, a symbol of a life lived. Or even one not lived." His voice grows quiet, and he talks to the icy grass below our feet. "I don't know how you do it, Hannah. Or why you do it. You've always been like that."

I feel as though he's complimented me and in the same sentence pointed out some sort of flaw in my personality. Suddenly I feel unsure and almost frightened of what will happen next, so I laugh, "Well, Richard, you know what I see now! But you haven't told me what you see."

He smiles over his shoulder again but doesn't respond. I approach him and put my hand on his shoulder.

"Richard?" I ask softly, "What do you see?"

His gaze lingers upon the trees in front of us. Slowly he raises his arm and gently removes my hand from his shoulder. He holds it for awhile, tracing the design of my glove with his finger. Then, he looks me in the eye.

"I see trees covered in frost, Hannah. That's all I've ever seen."

He drops my hand. I watch him as he slowly walks back the way we came, until I can no longer see him through the mist.


.

gratitude...

Savior, Redeemer of my soul
Whose mighty hand hath made
me whole
Whose wondrous pow'r hath raised
me up
And filled with sweet my bitter cup!
What tongue my gratitude can tell
O gracious God of Israel

Never can I repay Thee, Lord
But I can love Thee. Thy pure word
Hath it not been my one delight
My joy by day, my dream by night?
Then let my lips proclaim it still
And all my life reflect Thy will

O'errule mine acts to serve Thine ends
Change frowning foes to smiling friends
Chasten my should till I shall be
In perfect harmony with Thee
Make me more worthy of Thy love
And fit me for the life above


"Make me more worthy of Thy love, and fit me for the life above."

...

The brush of the wind across the land
leaves the world cold.
Landscape transformation: littered over the ground
in the form of slumbering debris blanketed by
a thin, white sheet of watery dust.
Waiting.
Sunlight falls unchanged,
its rays resting gently
upon the earth.
All is still - the land sleeps -
waiting.
There is no warmth from
this winter sun.

missing...

Like a night with no moon, or
a spring with no rain.
Like a song with no sound, or
a man with no name.

Like a rose with no thorns, or
a lamp with no flame.
Like a kite with no tail, or
a flag with no wave.

Like a wish with no hope, or
a crime with no shame.
Like a heart with no beat, or
a break with no pain.

weekly poem...

An Exercise in Love

for Jackson Allen

My friend wears my scarf at his waist
I give him moonstones
He gives me shell & seaweeds
He comes from a distant city & I meet him
We will plant eggplants & celery together
He weaves me cloth


Many have brought the gifts
I use for his pleasure
silk, & green hills
& heron the color of dawn


My friend walks soft as a weaving on the wind
He backlights my dreams
He has built altars beside my bed
I awake in the smell of his hair & cannot remember
his name, or my own.

Diane di Prima

missing...

There are some people you meet who
forever leave an impression upon you.
It is as if he or she has left a handprint on your soul;
a permanent reminder of
the uniqueness, loveliness, and beauty of
the friendship that
you and that person created.
No amount of scrubbing,
brushing,
scraping,
or painting over
that handprint can remove its residue.
No other person can quite match the distinct
shape,
size,
width,
and length of
the palm and fingers that lay
stamped upon your heart.
There's no replacement.
There never will be.

weekly poem...

This week is less poetry in form, but the imagery is beautiful to me. I really like the writing I've found by Melanie Braverman. I like it a lot.

No longer if we'll get cancer but when

No longer if we’ll get cancer but when, the doctor said. Now questions accrete around the irritant like pearl: Not when but how? Not how but whom? And then why. And then why not. I take a can of ashes to the beach and empty them into the wind. Outside the trash man collects bottles like a miser rattling his jewels, tossing them onto the growing heap.

-Melanie Braverman