Essence is essence and flat as I might feel shadow reveals otherwise; such is the mystery of life
Orange is my essence – the promise of sunshine and creativity, and… I envy blue its expansiveness
Constrained as I am by conformity – this silver-framed existence a settling
But shadows don’t settle they stretch and bend and exclaim rebellion savagely defending essence.
(Slanted Orange was written in 2022 as a collaborative effort with a local photographer. The efforts of our poetry group are published in a book called the Minimalist Eye. Click here to see the whole collection as well as the photographs that inspired each poem. I’ve used my own art for this post.)
“If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern.” – William Blake
Weathered the would that frames this perception, once painted with optimism, long worn.
How bright the ideals of youth, now blurred, colours stripped, raw intention bared –
Life mocks these aged perspectives old structures fail, light dims with neglect
Still the heart beats solid, hope like putty sticking to the sills, solidifying half-truths.
How deluded am I, trapped within walls defined by out of focus panes, separated
From a reality that would behold me fragmented or whole, and who will ever know
Have not the wherewithal to strip back old mindsets, repaint the trimmings
Am content to dwell behind screens of my own making, distorted but secure.
“My father will always be a touchstone ghost. He comes around often, especially late at night when I’m singing…” – Raymond King Shurtz
A touchstone ghost? My father? A thick shame falls over the morning… Mother is dead now too, and her death, still fresh and ungrieved also hovers
What am I to make of the absence? parents who consumed so much of my energy – emotional energy, for sure –
Suddenly, they are gone and the silence echoes bouncing off the chamber where my guilt lies
Was I ever enough? I thought about walking away So many times…
But how could I? One dependent one abusive both declaring love
I am not infantile not rendered immobile but my heart does falter
If either ghost is a touchstone it is a measure of progress a beacon of survival
I wish them both well and infinite peace and well, I also wish them gone
It is the relief that comes with their passing that gives me pause…. am I really that cold-hearted?
No, not cold-hearted just worn out and longing to breathe
But ghosts linger spirit infiltrating generational layers
and I hear my father’s voice in my grown son’s compassion – a side he seldom could convey
and I see my mother’s resiliency in a granddaughter’s determination
and I know now what the grief is… the failure to recognize the gifts amid the constant suffering
Even in war their are blessings and I’ve forgotten to stop fighting still hold my breath, waiting for the fallout
Maybe the ghosts remain as a reminder
that I survived.
(Written for Holly Troy’s writing prompt: Everyday Ghosts, which invites us to breathe in a prompt (the quotation) and write without pause for 5, 10, 15 minutes.)
One Woman's Quest 