Reasons for Not Writing

A dream once told me,

“Clear out the clutter,” but

I continue to accumulate.

First, I must clean up this room.

Papers, papers everywhere...

pencils need sharpening,

files need straightening;

there are lists of things I should do each day,

lists of things I should do this year,

lists of things I should do before I die--

and do I do them?

No.

I continue to accumulate, mountains of clutter.

Even my bed gets crowded,

not with bodies

but with piles of papers.

Then there are clippings

thought to be of interest to some friend.

Quotations (oh how I love those).

I have even made a collection of quotations I like 

on 3 X 5 cards

which I keep in a box in my closet--

also full of clutter.

Clothes are the least of it.

I am thinking of ridding myself

of clothes I have not worn for five years,

but so far, they still reside

in my closet, taking up room I could use

for my files:

more quotations, more papers.

It is as though I am afraid my brain

cannot hold all those comments

by authors unknown to me.

I sometimes wonder--

did they suffer from clutter too?

I am sure, like me, they do not allow their spouses

to go into a frenzy of cleaning

in their sacred place.

That would be cause for divorce.

I think about putting up more shelves.

The ones I have are crowded to overflowing,

and I need more space.

But would that solve my problem?

Probably not....  I would just use more shelves

as an excuse to collect.

Is there help for one like me?

Others have tried.

Someone once gave me two thick pads of lined paper.

At the top of each page was the phrase

“Things to do today.”

Their instinct was kindly,

but of no earthly use to me.

I dream of an empty room,

painted white, even the floor.

It contains one chair, a small table,

an empty notebook,

and a lavender pen with a fine point.

© Peggy Latham, 2012

Two officials of the New York City Tenement House Department
inspect a cluttered basement living room, ca. 1900 ~
NARA photo, Wikimedia Commons

The Promise of Summer

Trees bending on the hillside

Their boughs long and wide, stretching,

Heavy with fruit.

Peaches blushing with pride

Like a woman's belly, round and smooth

From the love he gave to her.

Ripe with anticipation

They lie under the shade of the fruit tree

And contemplate shades of blue sky

While they talk about plans

And he makes her sweet promises. 

© Shelly Sitzer, 2012

Peaches: USDA photo by Keith Weller

I Love You, Jona Noelle

faces are the road maps of our lives

just like hearts are the road maps to our minds

faces tell the True stories of our past

whispering secrets like winter frost on stained glass

barely touching the surface but completely covering it

bearing intimate knowledge and shamelessly showing it

faces tell tales of silent lips and screaming lies

of piercing panic and remorseful sighs

for we wear our wounds inside our eyes

inside our thoughts and minds

they come in many forms

from subtle comments to roaring sores

some are better at hiding them

most are good at denying them

some you can see, some you can’t see

but they are all the same to me

so where do I begin

writing a love poem

to someone I do not recognize

when my eyes

yearn to disappear

every time they meet the mirror

and even though I know

that what you see physically

is not me

only a mere reflection

just my soul cloaked in skin

I am ashamed of where my face leads the eyes of others

I feel exposed, read like an open book--ashamed of my cover

for the only thing that keeps me from loving myself

is the fear that my scars make me ugly and empty, a worthless, hollow shell

with nothing inside but shame and anger

with nothing to hide

but a red light loudly flashing “danger, danger”

so perhaps it is best

to begin my story like this

and give you a little glimpse

of my painful past

so that I may finally face my fears and cast

them Lovingly into the Light

so I may learn how to hold them without a fight

for surely true healing only happens

when I allow myself to feel these contractions

and work to release the pain and embrace

the purpose and meaning that outlines my face

and so I hope that as I share my story with you

you are held and comforted by it too

for there is something truly powerful about sharing a painful secret

because as you listen, it becomes a part of your story as you willingly keep it

and because words were what he used to beat me down

beat me numb with loud-manipulative sounds

that stunned and knocked me to the ground

I will use them now to build myself back up again

and reclaim these healing tools, the secret medicine that mends

******************************************

every time I stare into my face

I see my spirit held in place

a hostage paralyzed inside my own skin—

the house my soul lives in

I cannot leave my skin

I could not leave him

I cannot leave these memories

as they unconsciously torment me, endlessly 

the scars on my face

remind me of a place

I dare not go back to

a place where my self-worth shattered

where my Voice didn’t matter

and all I could do

was breathe through

the attacks, arguments, and verbal assaults

as I desperately gathered my wounded words and thoughts

these lesions only remind me

of the violence that defined me

while I laid silent and still

allowing myself to be held against my will

for when I gaze into a mirror all I see

are signs of violence reflected back to me

deep seeded-memories

screaming to be seen

pleading for a plea

saying  “please,

stop being ashamed of me”

I don’t want you to look at my face

I want all signs of my pain erased

because I am ashamed of what you see

I am ashamed of what violence did to me

I am ashamed that I allowed it to happen

as you cocked your penetrating weapon

I am ashamed of my weakness when confronted by your confrontational words

I am ashamed of what you said…and what I heard

I am ashamed of how many times

I let you inside me

when my body screamed NO!

over and over…quietly

I am ashamed of how I can’t remember certain events

and how I let myself forget

see, I was blinded by my blindside

by my refusal to let go

even though I know

even Denial said I had tried

but when I feel-think of all the pain I went through with you

I think of all the pain you must have gone through too

to make you feel such a need to control

dominate another person, another soul

I think of how you didn’t have someone to heal with

how you weren’t held when you dearly needed it

I think of how your past melded into mine

how our pain melted into each other’s lives

and how it has taken me years to understand and embrace

that everything that happens in life has its place

and shows itself on my face

so before I start demonizing my skin

perhaps I should show a little compassion

for my situation and inclination

as a target of abusive-persuasion

so instead, I want to thank my skin

for being the loyal, Loving friend

that courageously protected me like faithful armor

that yes, left wounds, but I wear them with honor

because after years of being in countless battles

and always coming back disgraced and mangled

I finally decide to end this war within myself

and praise my skin, my holy-human shell

*********************************************

if Love is kindness and compassion

in the face of an unfeeling world

and the willingness to remain open

when others have closed their doors

then I will take each painful lesson as an opportunity for growth

and work to mend broken Hearts in the best way I know 

so, David, I love you

for all that you made me go through

for you taught me what Love isn’t so that I could learn what Love is

because I now understand what I didn’t, and am able to forgive

and so

I Love you, Jona Noelle

I Love your laugh and the joy that fills your eyes when surprised

I Love your childlike humor and innocence

your passion for change and forgiveness

but most of all, Jona Noelle

I Love your pain

and the tears you cried inside

and the scars you try to hide

I love your pain because it kept its promise to Heal you

it kept its promise to reveal to you

all the lessons you need

to become a whole (holy) human being 

for the Beauty that you seek lives inside

all that Pain you try to hide

Beauty dwells within painful experiences

and is where your inner-Power truly lives

so wear your Pain-Beauty gracefully

with honor and birthright dignity

I Love you, Jona Noelle

I love you more than you will ever know

I will hold you when you are alone

I will listen to you when you are afraid

I will kiss your tears to melt your sadness away

I will always believe in your ability to heal yourself

and will be there to reflect back to you the warm Radiant Love you know so well

I Love you, Jona Noelle

I love the mountains and valleys of your face

I love the intimate stories that your lips shape

I love the deep ocean of your eyes, the tears that you cry

the sunrise of your smile and the rosy-red fields of your skin 

I Love everything thing about you

because your Pain-Beauty gives me something to believe in

Jona Noelle reading her poem, part 1

Jona Noelle reading her poem, part 2

Detangler

She must like the closeness more than she fears the pain.

Asks me to brush her hair, then perches on my lap.

Wincing and writhing, no matter how gentle I am,

she's jerking whimpering stomping clutching her head,

but letting me work the tangles out, submitting

to my assistance. I know how much that galls her;

a price almost too dear for my strong girl to pay.

Soon the balance will tip and she'll take on her own tangles,

and push me away, and that will be that.

I won't be invited to help with her snarls, her rat's nests,

and she'll live with things on her head that she can't smooth over

or pick through. I am confident she'll figure them out without suffering.

She's too efficient to carry those dreadful burdens far.

Every day I practice being softer, undetectable,

and hope she'll ask again tomorrow.

© Laura Seale, 2012

"Tangles" ~ photo by Tony Russell