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Posts tagged “poetry

Stopping in the woods on a snowy evening

In 2002, I spent 14 days locked in a concrete cell. I was put in nothing more than a thin cotton shirt, and a pair of shorts with holes in the seams. The cell they called “observation” for those deemed to ill-behaved to be out and about with the other girls. I was 16 years old. It was winter in Provo Canyon Utah. The room had 7 concrete walls and a steel door with a small window, in which one could be “observed” through. There was no toilet, no shower, trips to the bathroom were supervised, and showers I gained only when I was conscious enough to respond “yes” when the attendant came by. I was given high doses of sedatives, not because I was acting out, but because I didn’t understand the rules I had just been placed under. The first days in solitary before the drugs, I ran in place, did push ups, sit ups, spent parts of the day doing math in my head, reciting poetry, singing songs, which did not go over well with staff…

The room I was in had only one other window besides the one on the steel door. It was a drafty skylight on the ceiling, 20 feet above from where I sat on the cold hard concrete floor. When the drugs they gave me kicked in, I lost the will to run in place, do push ups, sit ups… all I could do was sit, and during that time, the temperature dropped drastically.

In my haze it was all I could do to sit and stare up at the ceiling, and watch the snow begin to fall on the skylight, fall and drift, fall and drift. My body violently shivered, my lips became chapped, then I noticed my toes, my fingers, begin to turn white, then blue, then purple. I took turns shoving my hands in my mouth in an attempt to keep the feeling in them, warm them any way I could.

It was then I realized, there was nothing I could do about this feeling of cold. My body ached from days of shivering.

And so I retreated to my mind. “What is cold?” I thought. “What is feeling?” I wondered. I took deep breathes, in an attempt to calm the shivering. I focused my mind on what it was that made me shiver, and set it aside. Then I focused on toes, my hands my body, and decided, that being cold was a decision, I had made in my mind. I embraced this notion, “yes, I understand body, this is a feeling, a warning system, and right now there is nothing I can do” I refocused my attention, to my breathing, to holding my body still, to ignoring the stinging pain that shot through me. I moved each toe, I gave each digit gentle massage, while controlling what I though about pain, what I knew about cold. Until suddenly I was just there. I was in a room with my body. Cold was a thought, this is not cold enough to kill me, so I need to push out this feeling, and attend to the needs of my extremities.

I did this until I fell asleep, deep in meditation sitting up against the wall. I learned that my mind is more powerful than my body, and that after a while if you can sit with yourself, find the power within, there is no such thing as cold, there is only you, there is only ever you.

 

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Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening –

Poem by Robert Frost

“Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”


A title mouth

I wish my title mouth could give you a brief description of what my life story has to say.

I wish my bruised ego showed on the purples of my face and I could show you what’s behind my sleeping eyes…those dreams I’ve been plagued with like disease.

I wish you could take that away, I wish I could take them from you…

I wish my fate was written like it is in the palm of my hand, all faded and unreadable, so I remember not to rely on that kind of thing.

All I wanted was to paint the sky, the way it looks in your eyes, all the brilliance of blue and the sadness of grey, those hues I wish to only paint away.

I want to replace the devil with a sweeter embrace.

I want to hold the world against my heart again, with its stabbing sadness and bleeding sores and I don’t care if its love infects me to have a friend…

I’ll say goodbye, if it means I get to say hello to you again.

It’s not a somber thing to loose a thing you never stood to gain.

I see the light in your darkness, and the darkness is my friend so I reach for him too, only to be lost in that cold embrace.

They call me winter, they say I make the summer sun shone brighter but my pale skin hasn’t seen the world in days.

You say you like the way my capillaries play. They gleam because I have you under my skin.

I wish you could see the space behind my eyes, the synopsis that light my way, I wish I could use their embers to carry a torch into the symphony of passage ways I see when I look at you.

Days like this pass quickly, and I unfortunately am familiar with their somber song.

It goes like this:

Everyday is the same, driving down the steady lane

Until a stranger stops you in your tracks and uses their hands to use your heart

They usher you to far off places, regions unexplored by the bravest soul

So they don’t have to die alone.

What a selfish thing to do.

They dive in the shallow end, and we dive with them, as helpless fools,

we loose our hands to destroy our fall,

And there we end, two fools in shallow water, trying to breath the blood bath we’ve created

Life’s messy, and when I swallow the taste of iron and water it fills my soul, and allows me to sleep.

It’s just a melancholy dream. A macabre and distant play that haunts my dreams shadows my face.

A drowning and a dying I don’t care to erase.

 

 

 

 


The Huntress

 She sits in silence amongst the leaves
 Her eyes are steady her breath at ease
 Her patient palms set on her bow
 Feet firmly planted, and head set low
 The huntress waits and stalks her prey
 Night after night, and into day
 Her vision grows weak, her hopes turns to sorrow
 Each day she prays for a better tomorrow

 Until all at once she sees
 The glint of something among the trees
 She steadies herself, she takes to her aim
 Within her heart there is a flame

 The deer and huntress lock in gaze
 A noble opponent in the morning haze
 The huntress sees this crown-ed buck,
 the velvet hair which hay has stuck

 Her hands are weak, her eyes they close
 and this is how the huntress goes

 Laying in a field of honeydew
 Her stomach thin and overdue
 A meal her lips shall never taste
 Her prize is lost, as is the chase

the hunter

Cookie monster

Dear Cooking monster, you selfish bastard…

Not only do you consume each delicious crumbling morsel to yourself, you don’t event taste it, how can you, without a nose?

I watch you, I see, you crunch them in your puppet mouth, that filthy hole.

You junkie, can’t even keep your eyes straight.

I bet the crumbs get in your fur, I bet they start to get rancid and smell after a time.

You selfish, filthy, blue oaf.

One day you will get your just desserts…

“C” is for Cunt you monster, it’s good enough to eat.

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Bear Fight

When my mind wanders and I hear an unfamiliar sound above me I begin to worry about unrealistic daydreams… like bears fighting on my roof.

Or the concern that I can’t draw a bear because I can’t conceptualize its face…

But the real worry, naturally, is it’s weight on the slates of the rooftop.

How will the planks sustain such a quarrel between two such fearsome creatures?

I worry about the gravel, the sharp stones atop the tar burying themselves between the soft skin of each tender pad. It would truly be a source of annoyance, and furthermore a sore spot ripe for infection that could possibly lead to its ultimate demise.

For it’s own sake, someone should really get those bears off the roof…

bearfight

More at: www.mscherrymartini.com

 

 

 

 


The Long Road Home

She levitates delicately above the blue haze of her consciousness.

Taking only fleeting moments to indulge her senses in earthly pleasures.

With eyes closed time passes slowly.

Everyday blurs into the sameness that fades and drags her inevitably back to ground.

Cars hum by,

tires kiss wet asphalt,

the wind gently rustling her hair, tangling her thoughts,

sweeping with it cold that kisses across bitter chapped lips

Where does this road go?

Will everyday make it’s long procession slowly

into a quiet oblivion,

an oblivion that will turn greens to gold and wither away with the passing days

She loftily yearns for the brightly burning passions of her youth, but the memories are sharp,

jaded by the fiery sting of hard won battles, wrong turns and scars.

Time stands still.

Hours hang meaninglessly leaving wide gaps between what once was

and what will be.

It’s time to push the clock forward.

The radio repeats the same song, skipping and fading into low slow static.

The static creates a hum

that lulls her back to sleep,

back into closed-eyed levitation,

where does this road lead?


Charlie

They call it hippie, they say radical in the late 1950’s witches brew of conservatism

Victor… Charlie

All I can hear is terror.

All I can hear is fear.

Charlie can you hear me, I’m calling you.
Charlie this drinks for you…

The governments mime action, the people demand justice

The crowds march but who are the victims here?

Those that stand for what they believe in

They are gone now, wasted by the true animals

Wasted by the violence

Can you hear me Charlie,

This drinks for you.

Cherry Martini Model 1960s vintage hippie

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