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Wednesday, June 18, 2014

A Visitor and a Wrong Turn - Part 2

Continued from Part 1.

Poetry stayed with me awhile longer. We sat alone, just we two, and she listened as I poured my heart out about that fearful accident. She let me tell her of all my worries and my fears, the headaches and the pain, the bad memories it brought up. It's so easy to tell her the absolute truth. She didn't mind if I cried. She didn't mind at all. In fact, she seemed glad to gather all my pain. She pulled at my innermost thoughts, from the very darkest regions of my mind. She probed my psyche like a most adept psychologist and found a collection of disowned thoughts. These, she wove into a bitter tale and gave me yet another gift.

And though Poetry has often given me profound and beautiful gifts, she sometimes gives me something I don't want. But I have learned never to refuse any gift from her. She is easily offended, and I wouldn't want her to stop coming to visit.


Alone in the Darkness

Am I not allowed to enter darkness?
Am I not allowed to feel despair?
Will no one deign to see my pain?
Will no one join me there?

The world in all its sparkle
Has no time for those dark knights
Whose path may cross with terror
And too many terrible sights.

When fear grips your heart,
And loss tears your soul,
Who will link their arm with yours,
And help you pay the toll?

But the social whirlwind of today
Has no time for others’ nightmares
They can’t see my scarred thoughts,
They can’t hear my anguished prayers.

But still I cry and look around,
Through this dark battle that I’m in,
And ask , “Will no one stand with me?
Will no one even know if I should win?

So, the age-old adage is so true,
This fall of mine has shown:
“Laugh and the world laughs with you,
Cry and you cry alone.”

Monday, June 9, 2014

A Visitor And A Wrong Turn

Poetry, to me, is like a visitor who comes and goes as she pleases.  She comes without warning, sometimes to comfort, sometimes to inspire.  She comes at the most inconvenient times, either while I'm at church or trying to sleep or out with friends.  She never comes to break up the boredom of everyday life.  She never comes when I call her or when I have a pen handy.  She's very peculiar that way.

Her gifts can be great and unexpectedly wonderful.   But other times, she leaves only a few small trinkets.  While she visits,  she gives me a tantalizing earful, and always makes me promise to remember everything she said.   Then she leaves, just as swiftly as she came, and I'm left with a promise that I rarely, to her satisfaction, can fulfill.

A few weeks ago, Poetry heard I was in an accident and came to visit.  I was crossing the street and was hit by a car making a left turn.  He must have been distracted.  He didn't see me and hit me full on.  Now I know what being hit by a car feels like, not that I ever really wanted to.  But in case you're wondering....  here's one of the gifts she left with me:



The river of life floats gently, ever onward,
As my feet move across the same old street,
The same old street,
At the same old time,
In the same old way,

Then, suddenly...

shock strikes me like lightening as my brain, for a flash of an instant, comprehends what is about to happen. the oncoming green sedan flips my dreary world upside down. pain bursts through me as if nothing else had ever existed. my face hits the windshield, and through my pounding head, i hear a crack. the pavement greets me with a thunderous blow. my body throbs, and my legs are twisted. i taste something bitter and see blood staining the ground.

the contents of my life and purse are scattered on the street...

And the river takes a turn.


Read Part 2