Tag: trauma

Of Trauma Born

Goodbyes tarnish
faith, like ashes
scattered

My heart grows dismissal,
craves a balm of connection
seeks quiet harbour

Remind me what it feels like to be safe
breath nurturing life,
love a rhythmic flow

In meditation
I reach for peace
imagine salvation

But this wayward chaos
unrestrained
cements me in doubt

Tainted intentions
I lift up to the Universe
a tempest without hope

My soul incubates malice
a child’s game when wounded
not encouraged by silver linings

Listening for healing threads
prolonging the letting go
sanctity remains untouchable

(Photo my own)

Who Am I?

(Trigger warning: this poem alludes to child abuse)

Who I am
if not a harbinger –
eyes turned to the sky
diligent?

And what defines me
beyond calm in a crisis
action-taking, firmly
responsible?

No bystander here
I will fight injustice
free the wrongfully accused
capable

Driven
driving
fearless
awake

No sleeping
when danger presents
turmoil relentless
nightmares persist

Visions of uprising
and natural disasters
filling my dreams –
I grow weary

I cry, but no one is listening
the bustle outside reflective
of lives being lived
while I cower

Worried that the sky will fall
and I will be too torn
too bruised
to rise to the occasion

That child I coddled
now questioning my motives
that woman I saved
scoffing at my delusion

I am neither saint nor saviour
I am just a woman/child running
from the drunk under the table
still trying to define herself
as anything but his prey.

(Drawing is my own)

The Car Crash

That time, playing in the muck,
foot emerging without a boot,
hopping and laughing
all the way home…

Then, later, on the bus
the impact of the car
the windshield cracking
like a giant spider
blood all over
the dead lady’s face

All in the past –
sunroof open
kids riding along,
music blaring

But trauma is a spider
Arachne reaching into happy places
and as much as I speed up
to avoid her,
fight to disable
her attack;
she weaves herself new limbs,
begins the onslaught anew

And I am stuck in the mud again
no longer limber enough
to dance my way home in the rain.

(The Car Crash first appeared here in March of 2020. Edited for this version. Image my own.)

Family Portrait

Did you know that life would come to this?
Flattened memories pressed between wax
the essence of our efforts forgotten,
the dreams, so carefully construed, lost.

You leaned toward the conventional,
and I was ever the sentimentalist,
and yet we ended up in the same place –
shadow selves standing at the banks
of our dishevelled lives…

Survivors, nonetheless, tokens
of a a past riddled with so many lies,
so much heartbreak…

We are ghost sisters
haunted, hunting,
unable to step away –

Drawn in,
pulling apart –
all that remains.

(Family Portrait first appeared here February, 2019. Edited here. Image my own)

The Car Crash

That time, playing in the muck,
foot emerging without boot,
hopping and laughing
all the way home.

Then, later, on the bus
that car hitting where we sat
the windshield cracking
like a giant spider
blood all over the dead lady’s face.

I thought I’d made it
when my new car had a sunroof
kids riding along, music blaring

But trauma is a spider
Arachne reaching into happy places
and as much as I speed up to avoid her

Fight to disable her attack
she weaves herself new limbs
begins the onslaught anew

And I am stuck in the mud again
no longer limber enough
to dance my way home in the rain.

Treading Trauma

Treading water
where barracudas swarm,
inject a drop of kindness
incite a ravenous threat

Quick the decision to bail,
shed contamination,
resulting terror –
shame exposed.

Now tread slough
longing floored
robed in foreboding
trembling in shadows.

(I have made poor choices in my life, which still haunt my dreams.  My therapist says to focus on the “quick departure”, honour myself for making the right decision in the moment.  Still, guilt lives on.  Such is the nature of trauma.  It lingers in our psyche.  Image from personal collection.)

 

The Pen Is To Blame

This is pen is far too vociferous,
illuminates the disabled rage,
dismissing my concerns, as if
outgoing messages are company
for its dispassionate agenda.

No privacy for ailing, sleeping,
I would physically eject the offending
appendage, but cannot bear reopening
of wounds, recognizing the sins are
mine, no matter how unintentional.

Words can be a trap, take on a beat
of their own, history rearing on page,
leaving me raw-nerved, reeling, their
thoughtlessness a venomous refusal
to remain a victim – I am inflamed.

How to banish the thoughts smouldering
like a cigarette, daring me to inhale,
choke on my own toxicity; I must expunge
the intrusion, recall this maddening vow
to create; withdraw to the safety of illness

shuttered away from the crowd, a blue
silence warming this frozen heart –
maybe, I’ll write a note and leave it
on the dashboard, command the pen
and its itinerary to leave me alone.

(Image: hellenmasido.wordpress.com)

Sleeping Alone

Sleeping alone –
so intrusive –
a child born of
so many intentions
awash in a trail
of barricades

I cope, cook up
breezes, strike
wet ground,
stuff myself
to satiate
the onslaught

ground rapidly
shifting –
Earth Mother
exerting presence –
too stubborn,
I turn away

Look for
God, but my
cup keeps moving –
I am unreachable,
charmed by
a broken tale

aimless,
oppositional,
overwhelmed –
cry out but
absence holds
no listeners

need adhesive
to fix this urgency –
a peerless torrent –
if only I could simplify
these wounds
find a stopgap

emotion
bubbles up
overflows
manifests
external turmoil
replaying sorrow

sleep offers
no repair
alone
tormented
by the issue
at hand.

(Image: blogs.voanews.com)