Imagine orange –
a lifetime of suppression,
roots tangled in black,
rebellion a given –
art bleeds essence at last
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Art my own)
Imagine orange –
a lifetime of suppression,
roots tangled in black,
rebellion a given –
art bleeds essence at last
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Art my own)
Have been unearthing the boxes
of my subconscious, clearing ill-
cast tales, intent on an end goal –
restitution at very least, but
my sister, no stomach for process,
wants to suction up the guck –
impatient for a quick cleanse –
plugs the workings:Â therapy,
a finicky machine, falters,
water oozes between cracks;
we are flooded by mutual
wounds, personal emoting
ankle-deep in truths neither
can bear, waders, all thoughts
of sanctity dissolving, and I
espy cobwebs forming, corners
once cleansed – dysfunction’s
mockery of hope – reminder
that when roots are rotten,
scars are reluctant to heal.
Weighted down – I eat rocks
to anchor this restlessness –
unable to exit through any door,
trying to relocate self-assessment
to a sunnier place, contemplating
where I’d like to be; have checked
in, but no room is ready – shove it
all back underground – darkness
defining my horizons, my sister and I
meet here at the edge of denial, both
seeking calmer waters – she swims,
I crave a shower – we are haunted
in our sleep – shadows clouding our
dreams – projections of mermaid
possibilities, and electric blue skies;
I am gaining some ground, sifting
through basements, tossing old
ideals, cynically reminiscing, she
strokes through the debris of family
storms, ignores the rubbish polluting
her pool, maintains motion, while I
remain submerged, try to work out
a relationship with our father, long
since deceased, still present, find
solid ground – have opened the contents
of our stored horror, no choice but to carry
on, have been an actor in our staged
drama, no fame though to add acclaim,
only misguided endings, fragile audiences
and a sister who follows a different light.
(Image: Â wallpapersblogspot.com)
Pardon the mess, but currently
renovating the psyche, moving
rape to a separate apartment,
trying to make room for God.
Heart is the crux of my home,
space for recreation essential,
my family is growing, roots
spreading outwards, Muslims
now amongst our beloveds.
I need to be present – useful
to communicate without
appearing challenged – hope
the elephant in the room
does not describe me, signs
of burning startling – smoking
is not permitted here – breath
is a requirement; I live here!
Dare I reveal, make a scene?
I’ve made my bed, better to
stay conservative, constrict
airways; don’t need much to
get by: a modest income,
marriage insurance, quiet
appliances, easy navigation.
Post overhaul, I’m hoping for
less complications, more flow,
compartmentalized sanity so
that God will stop questioning.
(Image:Â http://watersofnoah.blogspot.ca/2012/03/big-rock.html)