How Do We Protect

 

 

This week has felt
like walking on marbles
every step, every word
unfamiliar, off  balancing
like learning a new language
like losing one’s hearing
the deafening silents of a room
not one breath could be heard
my ears ache from the strain

This week I wore an armour
a deflector of evil stares
their acid scented breath that lingered
walking into a den of wolves
with their matted manes
their yellowed teeth
their foaming mouths
their torn hoofs
how can one feel protected
when evil drips from the rafters
like molten tar, black, thick, all-consuming
a den, void of any life

How have we forgotten?
the child so young, so trusting, so innocent
abuse does not easily fade with passing years
the child remains hidden
in a protected place
the subconscious mind

I am compelled to extend my hand
to open my heart
to create a secure place
for that child to return
my mind spins as I sit and listen
words and images fight for space in my head
breathing does not release the throbbing
hands tighten, knuckles whiten
anger grows with the frustration of legalities
‘To prove beyond doubt’

A child’s memory is so delicate
so different than an adult
yet, they are expected to remember
to act as an adult should
a child’s mind protects
for survival is an instinct
how would we react
with our many years of age?
nothing can erase
 the horror that has been done to them
victims will always remember
like a shadow following them to death
forever marked, like a tattoo engraved beneath the skin

I listen to witnesses
unable to move my eyes
my ears can’t comprehend the words
leaving their mouths
one after another they speak
as if reading from a script
I feel hollow, everything echoing

But what I feel  is nothing
compared to the continued rotting
they will experience of their soul
no way will they sleep
soundly again
no way will they feel happiness

In time, they will turn on each other
like wolves in a pack
fighting for the same bone
the sub-conscience is a vital component in our construction
it will not release them of guilt
or the empty words they spoke

As a person who draws lines and assembles words
my focus is the child that became an adult
I can only offer comfort and support
to deflect as much as I am capable
to ease their sorrow for an hour
to communicate belief in their memories
to support with open heart and arms
I myself will sleep well

If I can bring attention to the uneven justice
create a path for victims to feel comfort
I may then return with a little ease
to my own mind and art
so I may again
look to things of beauty
and things of love
for we must never allow the evil that lurks
to control the good we know to be

 

 

My Book Blue

I have held this book

I have read this book

I have sought clarification

I have sought guidance

It has never let me down

It has always shown me options

We have been friends since 1998

I have mended its falling pages

I have duck-taped it more than once

My book has never complained

BUT

I have drifted on occasion

My eyes, caught by the new and younger

With its cover all shiny and slick

It’s pages so white they reflect the glare of the sun

With more sophisticated explanations

More adventure within its lines

STILL

I only drift for a short time

Tiring so quickly by the new

I may drift but I always come back

I come back to you my dear blue book

You, having been shoved in every bag and suitcase I own

You, my dear blue that never demands a thing

You have always flown through customs without a hitch

You never get tired to fly

You have never spoken a lie

YOU, BLUE

Are the shadow that watches my back

Never have you left me hanging

SO

I will continue to tape your pages

I will always come to you first

You have explained
stairs, eggs, ladders, and bees

You are my confidant and never tire of my thoughts

My book of blue

You know me better than I know you

My dear friend

My Book Blue

 

Note;
At times it’s the strangest thing that pulls us back in history. My book of dream definitions has seen me from when I first started to sculpt. It has been with me through my husband’s illness and has helped me explain my paintings for shows. I have duck taped this poor book so often that now it has its own personality. It has its secrets and its own life.   My book also has my husbands handwriting on the inside cover, this gives it, even more, importance as I continue to walk and talk and create my way through this life as a widow, a widow without a manual.
Can a book become your friend? There are days when I think YES.

 

Sitting
elbows weighing heavily on the wooden table
chin
bearing down in the palms of my hands
breathing
irregular
chest
held captive by
words, thoughts, images, sounds

Where
are the waves crashing against the ancient rock
the ocean, filled with memories of time
where
is the cello that moans with the wind
quenching my parched heart

I fill my ears with notes of Glass
the tapping of ivory keys
vibrate through my skin

my skin
my skin
that has been holding a million tears
holding, like some golden treasure
an illusion that I have created
a place that I run to when the world feels foreign

Glass fingers keep tapping
causing my heart to swell, expand, expose itself
music eclipses sorrow
holding and slowing time
I pause 
allowing my breath to penetrate
my heart to go quiet
allowing myself to feel the rhythm

One note
a continuance of notes
all are the blood that nourishes
my mind and heart
it can be heard everywhere
it can also be seen
as it touches  a leaf on a tree
or skips along the water’s surface
music
the motivation of life

september 12 2017