‘Twas horrible to think
that she suffered
an unspeakable childhood.
Every day they reopened
the contentions –
old ones
that she could not
tear away.
Mischief and dread
became more likely
than right and wrong –
causing heads to hit
hard against circumstances
almost as good
as she once was.
(Blackout poetry created from a page of “Great Expectations” by Charles Dickens)
I got a new blackout poetry journal that uses classic literature to inspire new works of poetry. This first one is my attempt at making original poetry from a random page of J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan:
Nightlights
My love,
were not all natural
dreams forgotten?
The skeleton
crawled about the floor,
rattled up the chimney,
and bathed her hand in sleep.
Nightlights pulsed
while strange children
found new mothers
in the faces of the night.
Once all were safe
her fears sat down
by the quickening fire,
warming the nursery.
I meant to share this poem around Easter, but forgot. Guess I had too much going on. This poem just sort of wrote itself, with the images of both the commercial and sacred aspects of the holiday mixing together in my mind. It is not meant to be offensive to religion, but instead, to compare and contrast the cheerful, innocent brightness of welcoming spring with the actual gruesome reality of a crucifixion and resurrection:
Scrambled Savior
Easter
pastel eggs
poor Jewish carpenter
whipped, beaten, and scrambled
last supper
omelet
I hated you
the first time we met.
You had replaced my old love
before I had the chance
to even say goodbye.
You dared to appear
right as he vanished –
and for that
you had to take the blame.
I am not afraid to die –
but I am not yet
unafraid of living.
I’m not sure I have ever written truer words than the 3-line poem above. This little gem came to me while taking a bath last night, so I repeated it to myself like a mantra until I got out of the tub and could write it down.
It is true that I am not afraid of death. I am a bit afraid of the actual feeling of dying, mostly because of the instinctual anxiety I fear it would bring. However, I am not afraid of being dead. In fact, I rather look forward to it. If there is something after death, it will be awesome to explore and find out what else is out there. If there is nothing after death, it will just be like the times I have passed out or been put out for surgery…simply a loss of consciousness which often sounds like a relief in itself. No more worrying. No more pain. No more anxiety or depression.
However, living is scary. Knowing I may have years and years of dealing with anxiety and depression ahead of me. Knowing that I will likely suffer from chronic pain and chronic illness until I die. Knowing that my degenerative conditions will likely worsen with time. Fearing that my husband may get sick or die and I will be alone. Fearing financial ruin. Fearing homelessness. Fearing potentially abusive situations. Fearing the entire planet going to shit (a justifiable fear from my point of view). Fearing that I may end up committing suicide if life becomes unbearable (not the ending I would desire for my life).
Tomorrow I have a dentist appointment and haven’t been feeling too good anyhow, so thought I would post tonight. Here are a few more elfchen poems for your reading pleasure (with a few slight poetry form rule breaks lol):
1.
Woosh!
Down the
electric slide feet
first and head banging.
Rock on!
2.
Captivating,
moonlight glinting
off a rocky
ocean shoreline, lonesome
yet ephemeral
3.
Projection
please stop
blaming others for
your own bad ideas –
evolve
Here is my tweet-sized entry for this week’s photo prompt Twittering Tales challenge:
The train draws near in a cloud of fog – the headlight shining through the mist just enough to illuminate the faces of those waiting to board.
I tip my hat downwards to hide my own expression. I do not want to see. I do not want to be seen. Human attachments will hinder my plans.
(280 characters)
She could never let me sleep.
That would put us
on equal footing
and allow me
to be fully awake
and aware.
Instead,
she would sneak into my room,
shake me awake
and cry loud, calculated tears
while I practiced
hiding my true feelings
and tried my hardest
to become a limp, gray rock
held barely out of reach.
Modern women
Obsessed
with the hair
on their heads
At war
with hair
anywhere else
(Poetry by Maranda Russell, marandarussell.com)
