At some point I stopped
listening to music. For me it was someone else’s joy.
Someone else’s story.
Not mine. Abuse of any kind stops the music
of your life.
My LP records sit on a
shelf. I thumb through them from time to time.
I can’t play my music
CDs either. I don’t want to revisit a life of abuse.
Songs stir memories
I rather not have. But I long for the sweet and
joyful interlude that
was written only for me.
[Author’s note: FYI, there is an exception. I have a group of CDs known as my car music, e.g., The Manhattans, Huey Lewis, The Commodores, to name a few, that I listen to on and off. But they stay in the car.]
we talked in the still
of the sun God listened to every sigh and cry
In my mind, that place where fantasy
and I meet, I watched wave after wave crash on the shore. I saw heartache
after heartache wash away the lines
in the sand. You can’t cross a line if it isn’t there, can you?
I looked up at the dunes. I saw a big
woman waving to me. “Come on!” she waved with one hand while the other
kept a large floppy sun hat on her
head. On the beach the sand was hot in the midday sun and the water was
cold but there was always wind on
the dunes. Her light sundress blew against her side and back.
I started to walk up the steep path
from the beach to the dunes. I lost sight of her where the path zigzagged
as I neared the place where she stood.
When I got to the top, it became clear that the woman was me.
As I laughed and sighed, I looked at
the beach. I saw a little boy playing alone in the sand. He looked up.
There was something about him that
said he always plays alone. As I waved, “Come on!” I knew that the
skinny tanned little boy was me.
the ER waiting
room made a long day longer and our love heartfelt
it happened quickly
I sneezed like my father more like him than I like
there is life on both
sides of the window is another lie
the little boy didn’t
believe it because no one saw what he
saw through the window
he saw fear and pain
on both sides of the window
no one could hear
him or see him on his side of the window
my thoughts don’t match how
I feel or vice versa so I remain hopeful
all things are forgotten
by humankind by time by design
except for the memories
of war of abuse of pain of suffering
for they are our own
they made us who we are maybe not who we thought we wanted to be
and what of the other memories
of joy of love of peace et cetera
they cast light on the shadows
in life with hope for the life to come
just like the knowledge of God
cannot be listed as a memory
words run through my head
so many words left unsaid the past can’t talk back
I can’t be having the thoughts I’m having.
The thoughts of past abuse never go completely away. I understand that.
Those thoughts spawn other thoughts.
And before I know it, I’m back in a place I don’t want to be.
Pain and pleasure converge once again
and I’m in touch with the confusion of the eight-year-old that was me.
It is Satan’s fuel fanning the fires of past
abuse freezing my thoughts for today. Fiery arrows aimed at the heart to destroy
whatever is true. The breath of an angel is
all it takes to quench this Hell fire and bring me back into God’s grace and truth.
Light and darkness can never occupy the
same space. All it takes is a candle of faith to dispel the darkness.