A CRITIQUE OF CIRCUMFERENCES
Like many survivors, there are times when I feel lost and utterly broken. During those times, my life seems small and my options limited. And so I try to remember that infinitely more may be possible than I often allow myself to imagine.
Like the whole world in a worldwide whirlwind
the center of my life is circled by a never ending dance
of lost and found blind and sighted lost and found
and I fearful as a child abandoned on a playground
dare to find a way out feeling imprisoned ~ but maybe not.
What if a larger presence than this wee world actually exists
within me no matter what I experience and I unknowingly
am out of the circle at home and free to wander mystery
unencumbered by circumferences?
In this new place where perhaps I have always been
I shall roam as a deer in high places neither lost nor found
and like a tulip bulb in the dark deep damp earth of winter
be free from fear knowing the springs and summers
that bring my ruby red color to grace the land will follow.
I may drink from the French antique porcelain cup with
its hand painted blue bird unconcerned that it could break
or wake up one morning and put on the pale green silk bra I have been saving for some other love.
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A recent birthday caused me to reflect more deeply about the importance of believing in and working for a happy future. This is a big challenge for everyone since the past is an easy place to inhabit; but for those of us who have suffered sexual trauma it can be especially difficult because it involves embracing a present and future that have been irrevocably changed by the past.
BEGIN
Reimagining
the past is idle
work; we do it well.
It is a habit
nursed on broken dreams
a robber we hang
out with who steals our
joy ushering in
all manner of grief
and futility
breaking our hearts
in two with regret.
Why do we do it?
Is disappointment
too deep to counter?
Reimagining
the future is not
so simple. We must
love ourselves into it.
We need to create
and investigate
all that life can give
forgetting the past
and the well rehearsed
reasons we are where
we are. And what if
where we are is just
the place to begin?
Can we labor for
kinder tomorrows?
Maybe you’re like me in that you need to be reminded that we can begin again and again and again. Each day, every moment we can begin. It’s the brave thing to do.
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MOTHER MOON
I composed this poem while I was in Granville, NY recovering from COVID-19. It’s written in Iambic Pentameter. While in the country, I was keenly aware of nature and why being under the moon and stars can be so healing. Anne Frank said: “The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quite alone with the heavens, nature and God.”
The time before the setting sun
when early evening moon appears
brings magic to the withered land
and comfort to our earthly fears.
While we alone and restless seek
some soothing balm for painful loss,
our mother moon who mourns the dross
with tender light dries unwept tears.
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When I spoke at The New School in NYC, my presentation was Sexual Trauma: The Challenges, Ramifications, and Possibilities for Artistic Transformation.
This short clip from that evening reminds us all that sharing our truth is an essential component in the healing process.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J25PqTyvxCM
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LUCK OF THE DRAW
For awhile now, I have found myself wishing to view the abuse I suffered as just one aspect of my life (albeit a very important aspect), rather than the major driving force it has been for many years. This change speaks directly to how much healing I have experienced. So as you read my recent poems, I beg you not to see them as some Pollyanna interpretations of the horror that accompanies sexual trauma. Rather, may they act as beacons of what is possible when we tenaciously and courageously travel the path to recovery.
Within that context, I am sometimes astounded by the realization of how lucky I am. So many others on this planet struggle fiercely without hope. By embracing my blessings and gifts, I am fortified in the ongoing task of healing my life.
LUCK OF THE DRAW
I asked it out loud.
Audible on the subway platform
amidst a sizable crowd
I asked it out loud ~
“How did I get to be so lucky?”
Like a sneeze it came
and I could not refrain
from voicing my wondering
how with all the loss and pain
I had been healed, cleansed of stain
while others, one in particular that day,
wildly struggle to somehow maintain
whatever shreds of personhood may
have salvaged their plight.
Yet I like a bird in flight
have flown higher and higher
even with my broken wing;
and she, or so it seems,
unredeemed
is stuck in city mire
no wings.
Who is she, this lost lost lady
carting bags of used up dignity?
Did I imagine it or did I see
her look wistfully at me
all dressed up in finery?
Is it possible she silenced her demons
just long enough
to witness my vain entreaty?
If so, did she agree
and was her gibberish,
inaudible on a subway platform,
actually an anguished plea ~
“How did she get to be so lucky?”