24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
.
That certain sadness
of not having regrets –
I’d love that.
Memories of what never
happened, and of absence –
I’d love that.
The dance we didn’t get
to do, the fading music –
I’d love that.
The rain that came and
lingered when you died –
I’d love that.
The quiet of night,
with its stars so bright –
I’d love that.
.
I’m willing to clean her vomit,
cook her breakfast,
and wash her sheets.
I listen to her pains,
celebrate her successes,
and smile when she needs it.
We’re 7 years in, with 70 to go.
Her wings felt papery in the wind,
Her eyes dotted by black,
She had never felt such a ravenous hunger,
Any minute she would pass out,
Her wings would stop,
And slowly she would fall to the ground,
The harsh winds threw themselves against her,
And she struggled to stay aflight,
As she navigated the dark forest,
But then, when it looked as if all hope was lost,
She had come to a clearing,
A place where the trees came to an end, and the darkness evaporates
In front of her, in the middle of the clearing,
Was a house, surrounded by a white picket fence,
And she smelt something sweet coming from behind that picket fence,
Her stomach gasped at the smell,
And she was drawn to it,
She flew over the fence, and into the garden, in a daze,
Then, she spotted a bench,
And on it, slices of beautiful, orange fruit,
She could almost taste it’s sweet flesh, and she had to have some,
She spotted a chunky slice near the edge of the bench,
There were others there too,
But she couldn’t care less,
She dive down to the slice,
She placed her lips on it,
And, savoury every drop, she drank,
The juice filled her up,
And quinched that hunger,
After a while she stopped,
For the first time in a long time, she was full
“I hated waking up, not remembering what had happened to me.”
I was chatting with my therapist
about my experiences
with electroconvulsive therapy.
Shock treatments.
I was explaining why ECT
felt like
I was being re-traumatized
with every induced seizure of my brain.
My therapist asked:
“Are there other times in your life that you woke up and couldn’t remember what had happened to you?”
I’m getting ahead of myself.
I’m a depressed person.
I am mentally ill.
I am clinically depressed.
Even at my most recovered,
my healthiest,
my most thriving self:
I am sick.
I have made many sabotaging attempts
to be as sick as I can.
I have also made many attempts
to get well.
Alcohol (I got sober).
Drugs (I got clean).
Therapy.
Antidepressants.
Self-help books.
Buddhism.
I starved myself (I recovered).
Prayer.
Meditation.
Anti-anxiety meds.
Anti-psychotics.
Psych wards.
And, finally, shock treatments.
“I woke up, not knowing what had happened to me.”
This is the declaration that serves as the cliff from which I leap.
Old times were the very best
Cornfields, and barns with hens
That gave our breakfast, fresh;
Life was simpler then.
The water well was ready
To fill the pitcher full.
The stream was full of frogs
That croaked and senses lulled.
Lightening bugs in a jar–
We kept, then raised the lid
To let them join the others
In flight to where they hid.
Clothes were hanging on the line
To dry in breeze of air;
Nothing ever smelled so fresh
As clean sheets dried so fair!
Lard was in the bucket
To fry the chicken, crisp–
No worries of clogged arteries:
Real butter, churned by Sis.
Homemade ice cream made so sweet
With salt packed tight around it,
We’d turn, and turn, and turn some more
Waiting for the taste: a hit!
Modern days are filled with speed
And great technology,
But nothing beats the good ol’ days
When shooting stars we’d see.
I sit here
in this forest
and follow
words through woods
familiar and not
lost in the sounds of
things that sway and
things that fall
and things fly
away my mind floats
until she captures my attention.
Fine legs
Sporting sparkles on her chest
and down her back
I get caught up in her musical hum,
and almost forget to kill her.
Wicked muse, fair-weather friend,
I can’t talk to you tonight;
The sounds of raindrops descend
Like soft breeze on a dim light.
An everyday has mussed my face,
Shall I get up to brush my teeth?
You tempt me with an odd verse
And not much after or beneath.
I am counting on your being here,
I so badly want to rhyme.
But here we haven’t a full Shakespeare,
Not even a Sondheim.
If I turn on the light, do you promise to stay,
Wicked muse, oh, to play?
Our history unveils a nay,
And I dare not for fear of scaring you away.
Everything you say or do,
Express the way you feel.
But always know I will be there for you,
No matter what you deal…
C. Burgess (c)
She was my closest friend,
My dearest companion,
My strongest support.
She was my fiercest competitor,
My most frequent confrontation,
My harshest critique.
My sister, my friend
-h.e.m.
Talents in unison
Confounded in shared reality
Finishing the polished elements
Remembering in the heart of matter
Yet the quest for fulfillment
Receiving its eternal reward
Blossoming reality of core being
Prompt # 10 Hour # 8
4:00 AM PHT 23/06/2019