Body Count
I discount
My body
Because
It remembers
My trauma
My mind
However
Prefers
To forget
In forgetting
I dishonor
Myself
My journey
My future
My past
My loved ones
In forgetting
I allow
The trauma
To build
Upon itself
A cycle
Which brings me
To my knees
Time
And again
On my knees
I’m not praying
Or am I
In my sad, sick way
On my knees
Am I begging
To be taken
Forgiven
Put down
Or helped up
On my knees
Am I crying out
To be seen
Heard
Or ignored
On my knees
Is it the prelude
To finding myself
On my back
Or standing up
My body remembers.
My trauma
Lives there.
When I ignore it
I grant
My pain
Wings
Sadness
Despair
They fly
Into my mind
Dampening
My spirit
Dimming
My light
Shadowing
My soul
Each time
I discount
My body
My body count
Increases
The weight of that
Paralyzes me at times
When I don’t move
My body
The pain stagnates
Then metastasizes
My inability
To move
In healthy ways
Climaxes
So
In those moments
I’ve begun to whisper
Move
Just move
I must
Learn
To count
On my body
Trust
The openness
Of my heart
Move
Into
My own way
Come Away
Nothing ever comes away easy
Not the bandage on your knee, nor the wax under your arm
Not the ink in the carpet, nor the scratch in the wood,
Not the bruise on your skin, nor the welt underneath
It comes away slow, drags heavily upon the earth
Like the weakening soul and its drudge to the grave,
Like the babe inching its way out of the safety of a womb
Come away, slow and reluctant,
Resisting the hands that gather you up
And raise you to a harsh brightness,
And welcome you to a world unknown
the joy of music
The 20th century was the first in which music became something one could have in one's home without anyone in said home having to own and be proficient on some instrument. One could hear one's favorite music at will -- first on phonographs which evolved into gramophones, then record players...followed by cassette tapes, (1962), CDs (1982) and digital MP3s (1995). Prior to the phonograph, without instruments in the home, music was by necessity always "live" and accessed almost exclusively in group activities: for example, at a community dance or private party, a concert, a church or in a pub.
I started thinking about this after a character from 1837 in a time travel novel I was reading was both shocked and thrilled to be able to listen to Bach whenever he wished with a simple request to Alexa.
It seems such a small thing, listening to one's favorite composer, band or musical artist...like so many big little things we take for granted on a daily basis: clean running water, indoor plumbing, a fridge, a stove, electricity, garbage collection, books...
What struck me when reading about 1837's reaction was that I cannot imagine a life without music in the background. My life has a soundtrack. There are innumerable songs from the 1970s till today that can conjure up a room, a feeling, another person, songs that transport me to another time - another me - whenever I hear them. There are songs that, upon hearing the opening notes, make me cry, or get up and dance or laugh at a memory revived...or just stop to listen and feel.
I turn on the radio in the bathroom while I shower, in the car as I drive anywhere, while I clean, when I cook...I am listening to classical music right now as I write.
Music is an integral part of me.
And so, pondering all this, I wonder: who would I have become without the music that has graced my life from my earliest memories?
I cannot help but think a very different, possibly much less joyful, me.
My darling, wifey.
Shells. It has been days since everything changed. I don’t know what day it is now, and I don’t care. I think I was at work when I heard, but I have no recollection. Did I leave with you? Can I? Time and hope were just a mirage in a feigned utopia that no longer exists. Life with you in it is gone and so is everything else. The universe has collapsed unto itself and what is left behind is nothing but dust and vacancy. A big gaping hole gasping like a fish on dry land. And I can’t catch my breath. I feel guilty when I think about the devastation I feel. This isn’t about me, but that’s who you were. You changed everyone you crossed paths with for the better. We didn’t know what was missing until we met you. The shine of you cast light upon all that was good but also all of our ugly, hidden, dirty, shameful, broken, lonely, and the loss within us, and you loved us like we’d never been loved before. A rebirth. And we will never know that love again. You gave what was once meaningless—meaning. How could someone who carried so much pain deliver so much joy? Your heart opened wide for us and we suddenly knew what it felt to be safe, seen, and accepted. The essence of you swaddled all of us no matter where we were. No matter where you were. I met you when I was at my lowest. You knew how to navigate the rubble I was under, you were there too. Our connection was so deep, a true soul connection. Your words both said and written spoke to me as though we had always been together since the beginning of time. Just thinking about the depth of you moves me. We both struggled, but our souls together could sustain it. And now you are gone. I should have called you more. Texted, written. Reached out more. I cannot process this pain. I know there are stages to grief and so I tell myself, this too shall become tolerable. A new norm. But I know better. You were a once in a lifetime human. And for that, I try to convince myself to focus on the blessing of that. And that’s true, I know that most will never have the fortune to meet a soul like you. But your human death is different. And I don’t think I’m going to survive it. I am ruined, I give up. I love you so much. Your energy is next to me but I don’t think it’s enough. Something changed when you left your body, and I don’t want to acclimate to humanity without you. I feel guilty for being selfish about this. But I know you would understand. And that’s all that matters. How did you make everything okay with just a word or two especially when I know you too were hanging on by a thread. Even when we didn’t talk for months, you existing made life manageable. You were and are an angel. A light. Energy that cannot die. You are a part of me, of all of us, and I feel your presence. I know that you are okay now. I know that peace and love everlasting has washed over you and you are everything you ever were without the pain of flesh. You have been and will always be the purest and rawest and realest of all that is beautiful. But for us here, we are stopped in our tracks. Putting one foot in front of the other because that’s what we do, but where are we going now? What is the point. “It takes two people to make you, and one people to die. That’s how the world is going to end.” William Faulkner.
What is the Why for Poetry?
Is it a well worded lie
or a linguistic gathering
for the collective
as suggested
by Bertolt Brecht
Could it be a
conflation of thoughts
strung together
in an attempt to
render a confession
Perhaps it’s to take
random words and
create an obscure flattering
for your secret lover
as Oscar Wilde did
It could possibly be
the lunatic ravings of
an erudite madman
who says he knows
but remains silent
In the end
the only one that may know
is the actual poet
who wrote it
…however…
they’ll leave it up to you
The Seat in the Chair
There's something about
that seat there...
There's a dent that tells
someone sat and sat there
There's a weight in the indent
a sense of importance there
There's a thought somebody
of import waited there...
There's the sound of thinking
that's suggested deep in there
There's the thought of respect
in that dent of the chair.
04.03.2025
Things have memory challenge @Last