The Thing That Did Not Kill Me

NaPoWriMo 2017 #19

It held on as a blinding tumor
Clouding my right eye for two years
Before I ran off to the desert
In search of healing.

When they removed the tumor
What I saw stopped my heart:
A flash, all at once, all of it,
I understood the gift
Of being half blind.

I'm thankful for the fake re-death
Induced by merciful drugs
By angels holding bed pans-
I'm grateful for gradual re-awakening
In this starched white hospital bed.

Two things often happened in my dreams as a child:

I’d hear someone creeping, creeping up the stairs, a stranger,

An uninvited guest, stepping quietly in the dark,

Always a threat never realized

And

The toilet would come alive with a deafening growl,

It would lift itself from its tile floor surroundings and

Start to shuffle, shuffle toward my room.

Sometimes, the two intruders would creep and shuffle

At the same time, a grand nightmare outside my bedroom door,

Moving closer but never meeting, never quite making it.

What did they want, what did they mean?

What would have happened if the creep on the stairs

Met the plumbing monstrosity in the hall?

Maybe I should have introduced them. Maybe

They were just loneliness incarnate, maybe

They needed a firm handshake and a “Hello”.

Maybe

I was not as powerless as they would have me believe,

Maybe I could have distracted away my own nightmares,

So that, in my adult dreams, I’d finally be able to scream

Write a Poem That is Also a Prompt

This is your chance! For your whole life, you have been waiting

For an opportunity to be heard- not listened to, heard.

Stop waiting! Tell me, now! I’m gaping ears, unrestricted mind, open arms

 I am the living blank notebook you always wanted.

What words didn’t you know, when you got in trouble as a child?

When you witnessed someone else’s pain, what do you wish you could have yelled?

What would have changed the course of your history?

Yell it, immediately. It’s never too late.

What’s that comeback that came 30 seconds too late?

That perfect, respectful pick up line for that beautiful woman?

The sentence that may have kept him home,

The phrase that could have saved your job?

To those questions you never got to ask: it’s time to give birth.

And those answers you never received: it’s time to make them up.

Take back your voice, own what you know and admit it:

You know the rest of the world needs to hear what you have to say.

You are bursting! You are ready! Your stillness serves no one,

Least of all you. Let it out, let it go, you will always be refilled,

Each word that exits leaves behind a breath of fresh air,

Suck it in, and just scream. It’s exactly what you need right now.

Buoy

The list of poets who have committed suicide

Is anything but short. Something about that vision,

That sensitivity, that third eye always watching the world,

Seems to make us more susceptible to madness,

To the inability to take it anymore.

Yet, so many of us hesitate, when offered a tonic

A regulated way to take the edge off: pills, that horror,

That addiction that’s rumored to dull the senses and

Drain our creativity like hemorrhaging blood.  We’d rather

Feel sharp, bright pain than live in dull, functioning shadows.

I tried. I tried to be a chemical-free poet, tried to

Tackle the daylight without a helmet, tried to

See past the fog of fear without headlights, I tried

And I did not succeed. I sank at an alarming rate,

Too weak to tread water with my legs alone.

Anti-depressants have been the buoy that

Keep my head above water  while I exercise my legs,

Working every day to get stronger. I can’t see the shore. 

I can only take great gulps of fresh air and sing of hope,

Of the feeling of muscles growing in my legs.

Poets talk about their poems as if they are children:

Unfolding with hot breath, wet, always growing,

Requiring as much care and maintenance as an infant,

Keeping their mothers up at night with insistent wails.

But poets are wrong when they talk this way, because

Poems are really new growth from old skin, another limb,

Sawed off and re-planted for the public to consume.   

Did I Ever Tell You About the Time...?

Once, as a child, my teacher called me “sour grapes”.

Instead of letting the hammer hit the nail again

I bounced her words back like a metal trampoline

And told her she could eat them; I’m just expressing myself.

Once, in middle school, a boy rubbed my leg

Without asking my permission. I stood up

In front of the class, asked him if there’s a problem,

If maybe he’d forgotten which legs were his.

Once, in high school, my youth pastor told me

My heart was made of construction paper and

Ripped so easily I’d leave pieces behind in the chests of others.

I showed him the holes filled in by what they’d given me in return.

Once, in college, the chaplain told me I was suffering

Because I had unforgiven sins weighing on my heart.

I tore open my gut and laid out my scarred insides,

I left him with the pain and dis-enrolled that day.

Once, as an adult, three men in a pick-up truck

Whistled and honked as I walked to work.

Ten a.m., basked in sunlight, I grew to ten feet tall,

Chased them down, and slashed their tires.

Once, I imagined I had superpowers

Once, I was respected and not vulnerable.

Once, my body was my own to control.

Once, I stood up for myself.

Once, I forgave myself, for all the things

I wished I’d said and done. 

Thank you, Nicole Homer.

YOLO is a Lie.

He says he wishes he could live two lives, that,

After this shell cracks and his soul leaks out,

He could have another body, try it all over again.

I say, we all live forever, that we,

With limited breath set the stage for eternal life:

Each outward expiration sticks to someone else, like pollen,

So that we are carried, fertilized and grown,

Even over fearfully built brick walls;

Even in countries where we’ve never been;

Even after our bodies give out and fade to dirt;

We grow quietly, forever, on the gardened backs of others. 

23/30

It’s a loneliness that makes my heart feel hollow,

Radiating an echo that keeps the world away.

I want to wear you like a cape, fingers clutched on arms

So hard they’re leaving grooves. I don’t want

To have to feel the wind, even when I can hear it whistle

Through my desperate core.

Over and over again, I lose myself in someone else.

Turn to Them Your Back Also

As a little lamb in Sunday school I learned:

The meek shall inherit the earth

Love your enemy, turn your cheek

And even, kill them with kindness.

But it is hard kill my enemy with kindness

When my enemy doesn’t know who they are

When I keep turning cheek to cheek declaring,

“No, it doesn’t hurt. Nothing is wrong.”

Then the only thing that dies is me,

My voice muffled under a swollen jaw,

My body shrinking from the weight of so much benevolence.

Sometimes, the only kindness necessary

Should be given to Myself, to allow myself

To ask for help in shrugging off the burden

Of meekness, to massage  my throat

Until my vocal chords re-emerge, victorious,

With a yell, “GET OFF. GO AWAY. STOP.”

I will not stay meek for the sake of your peace

I’ll stop sacrificing myself in the name of avoiding conflict.

I will keep screaming the truth to you until

It’s safe to turn my back on you,

Instead of just my cheeks. 

What Do You Do That Makes You Invisible?

I’ve always had the echoing refrain,

“Let me not be a burden” bouncing

From wall to wall in every corner of my brain.

Let me sit over here so I don’t

Infringe on your personal space;

Let me move out of the way

Instead of “playing Chicken” on the sidewalk;

Let me lose weight so I don’t

Take up as much room on the planet;

Let me be invisible, if that’s what it takes.

“Let me not be a burden,” but to what end?

What waste have I created by letting myself

Act as less than I am? Even when I become lighter

Or farther away, I still exist, and with less of me

There is less to give. “Let me not be a burden,”

By blowing up and wearing neon lights

And a sandwich board that brightly declares,

“You are worth it, I’m out here for you.”

From: http://nicolehomer.tumblr.com/post/83259422617/15-30-niprowrimo-or-mr-cellopohane

Believe

How will I pass this test?

                Have faith, just believe.

Is this the right college for me?

                Just pray, and believe.

Why did my friend die?

                God has a plan, believe.

Why was he healed, but not her?

                God works in mysterious ways.

How can miracles be real?

                Because we believe they are.

Why does a loving God send people to hell?

                You must believe he has a reason.

Why do I still get panic attacks after all these years?

                Because you haven’t believed-

                                                                -hard enough.

Why I Hate Stuffed Animals

I was nine years old

When my parents cleaned out the house.

Divorce, it was time to move.

I was sitting on the front porch steps,

(The ones that had been washed so many times

By spring thunderstorm rain while we watched,

Safe under the roof in lawn chairs)

I caught the crooked eye of a derelict teddy bear

Positioned haphazardly on a bulk of trash;

It’s mouth halfway unstitched, it’s nose broken.

Though it was alive I’d never seen it before.

                (How could I miss it? All of mine were

                Individually named, with back stories and

                Regularly scheduled hugging.)

I snuck the teddy bear up to my room.

We cried together, me out of pity,

He, out of fear, until I named him,

And added him to the hugging rotation.

                (My therapist, so far removed but

                So far in my head, would say: “Do you

                Think you found yourself that day?”)

Runners

Sometimes runners looks ridiculous:

Muscular, limber women and skinny men

Heel-toeing it down Speedway at six miles per hour

With nothing visibly chasing them.

I wish I were chasing them.

Sometimes I have dreams where

I’m running with full breath, where

My lungs are clear buoys holding

My feather-light body in the clouds I’m pushing through.

In real life, I am just a rock wearing Addidas,

Trying to propel my way through rain and pollen

With anxiety hung around my neck,

And spilling down my back.

Maybe runners only look ridiculous

Because I’m always watching them from behind.

Umbrella

I'll keep telling the lies

As long as you keep believing.

We'll dance under that umbrella

(Half in and half out)

Gathering water, until we can't

Find our bodies anymore, until

We have to dig to find where our clothes end 

And our bodies begin.

It's a performance but it's not sexy, 

Like a kiss in the rain,

And we won't find the truth

In a heart-wrenching montage-

(Is there a truth? Which one of us is right?)

It's just an age-old ritual to keep us from

Drowning in the devastating delight

Of Spring rain on bare skin.

Reoccurance

It fits like an aura, an opaque cloak;

A sudden arrival during daydreams

I try to figure out what broke.

I float in the shower, upstream

I open my eyes wider to search

Watch desperately for a meaning, a theme.

One day I’ll figure it out, with a lurch.

"There's No One Here At The Moment"

Say, “Hello?”, pull off her glasses,

You’re met with a glassy eyed stare.

Peek in the window of parted lips,

There’s nothing;  the lights are all turned off.

Rip open the chest!

                Give up, go home.

There’s no one here until tomorrow morning. 

Inspired by: http://www.open.edu/openlearn/history-the-arts/culture/literature-and-creative-writing/literature/what-poetry/content-section-7.4

Ode

Earth was written in the spring

By a soft shade sunrise creaking quietly awake

From an eternity of hibernation, each ray

Slowly caressing this new beginning to speak.

Blooming words pushed up from fresh soil:

White roses, daffodils, iris and, rising taller,

Red tulips, a declaration of eyes opening and

Smiles emerging in pastel blushes.

Each year this poem is read aloud 

To a soundtrack of tremolo birdsong

That grows in intensity to a burst of violins

As we are reminded to shed skin, open arms,

Free our limbs and start again, this time,

With hope.

Inspired by: http://www.napowrimo.net/2014/04/lucky-thirteen/

Worry Is The Coldest Season

When it snows, we catch snowflakes in our palms

And smile as they melt. We breathe in cold air,

We breathe out the power to destroy.

When we want to be creative we collect hundreds

Of snowflakes, briefly turn our warm breath away,

And let each distinct sliver of snow meld into one.

We breathe in excitement, we breathe out and let

The snowballs fly. We’re hit, we giggle, the game goes on.

When we’re bored with our cold, flat street, we move

To the mountains, ride with skis to the top, 

And let ourselves fly, momentarily breathless.

Once, you wouldn’t let go.  You crouched at the top

Frozen, because you took a breath in

And forgot to let another one out. What was different

About this snow? What did you think you could control?

When they told you everyone must let go and continue moving,

Did you think that didn’t apply to you? 



This started with: http://www.napowrimo.net/2014/04/day-twelve-2/

"Write Drunk. Edit Sober." [Hemingway]

The mind waits, rocky and gray, hidden

By a long winter of sobriety. It is easy to ignore

That purple fire, its small flame, when the

Words you have to work with are cold, and serious.

Water your mind with wine, soften

The gray matter, let the liquid reach down

To where seeds have sat dormant for decades

Waiting for eyes to be opened and sun let in.

With red rain spring erupts into a kaleidoscope

Of plant life, flora both native and unique,

Intertwining leaves into a mess of splendor.

When you wake up on the edge of the field

You will find your poem, a familiar path

Framed with idyllic garlands you left behind

While dancing, drunkenly awake.

Inspired by: http://www.napowrimo.net/2014/04/day-eleven-2/

American Horror Story: Introvert

Lights focus on a rusty car pulling into the last parking spot

In front of a house in a suburban neighborhood.

The camera zooms in on our hero, reluctantly unbuckling,

Checking her phone one more time, Google searching:

“Excuses to turn around and leave”.

The car door opens, our hero exits, she moves

Like a former tom-boy, current book nerd who

recently gained fifteen pounds and feels it but

Is trying to swagger confidently in her tight jeans and studded boots

(The audience wonders if she’s already drunk).

Zoom in on the jeans for a moment.

The swagger moves her to the front door, only after, for once

Stopping to smell the flowers because- what better time

To slow down and enjoy life than right before a party?

Our hero pauses with her hand on the door, the camera pulls back

To show a few people scattered in the next room

And then the next as our hero finds sudden speed and

X-ray vision; she almost jogs to the backyard after realizing

She doesn’t know anyone at this party but the hosts.

Show the hosts laughing, spilling drinks, show

Our hero’s wide eyes and lips pressed tight as the hostess

Goes in for a tight embrace.

Zoom in on a plate full of food, quivering slightly, show her

Hand moving up and down rhythmically as the food disappears.

Show one glass of water, then two, emptying quickly

Match the arc of her eyes with the angle of her watch as she

Lifts the glass over and over again, especially when another person

Moves within speaking distance.  

There hasn’t yet been more than two sentences of dialogue.

The camera takes a shot from above: our hero is cross legged

On the floor in the dark, empty hallway, in between two sleeping dogs,

Texting furiously. A shot of the text:

“That cool guy who makes all the short films is here. He

Has cool glasses and a pretty girlfriend.”

Sudden shot of the cake, a burst of “Happy Birthday”, our hero

Is intrigued. She smiles for the first time and rises to meet the cake.

She waits in the back of a crowd in a blindingly bright kitchen,

An obvious shot of the movement out of the corner of her eye,

Then a slow motion shot of our hero’s head turning and her eyes widening again,

Her face twisting into something like a confused smile, brows furrowed,

As the girlfriend of the cool guy with the cool classes

Progresses ethereally toward our hero donning a coy smile of her own.

Slow motion shot of the cool guy’s girlfriend reaching up an arm

And sliding it around our hero’s shoulder; next we only see

A slick mouth next to a perspiring ear, pause, pause, pause.

All noise but the pounding heart of our hero stops and then-

“Honey, your fly is down” is heard like an avalanche and our hero,

Slow motion startled, drops her plate of cake. The camera follows

It’s fall down to the tight jeans, the open zipper, the studded boots.

Focus on the horrified and disappointed face of our hero.

End scene.