Not very narcissistic, I fear. I’m re-blogging on nanmykel.com poet/try
Prior to the train robbery itself
a portion of horses must think
on some level
that they will get on the train
with their bandit masters
& on that same level
must walk home alone
feeling
through no fault of their own
like total losers.
I received my reply from the Daily Post’s Community Pool today. (I just knew they wouldn’t ignore my question!):
train2bfitblog liked a comment on The Daily Post |
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Your poem reminds me very much of the first poem on my “Shadow Selves” page. I’d be curious if anything on my ‘INCEST” page is useful to you. Both are thru nanmykel.com. You write impassioned poetry…I’m reblogging onto both of my pages.
A demon in me that lies await,
For me to crash into an awful state,
At that point it wakes and crawls,
To get to my conscious through the walls.
A hideous creature that’s full of rage,
Ready to self-destruct at any stage,
It just waits there deep inside,
Until it can no longer be controlled or hide.
For when I crash I begin to boil,
My control is gone, it’s no longer loyal,
Instead the locked box comes alive,
With so many memories ready to revive.
Finding the key to close it shut,
Is one of a kind that can’t be cut,
It’s has a maze in its secret location,
To keep it open to feed my frustration.
A haul of questions I can not answer,
It’s more aggressive than any cancer,
It crawls under skin and gets in your head,
Loving the destruction that keeps it fed.
When the…
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This somehow seemed to fit into our discussions on “Our Shadow Selves.” It’s placed in “Poet/try” also.
Are you right? Am I wrong?
Are you wrong? Am I right?
You call my freedom immorality.
I call your freedom slavery.
Are you right? Am I wrong?
Are you wrong? Am I right?
You kneel and bow.
I am still standing.
Are you right? Am I wrong?
Are you wrong? Am I right?
You dream of an afterlife,
I live each very moment.
Are you right? Am I wrong?
Are you wrong? Am I right?
You want to change me,
I even don’t think about changing you.
Are you right? Am I wrong?
Are you wrong? Am I right?
Could you forgive me?
Could I forgive you?
Who’s right? Who’s wrong?
PART 3
Sundance Comm. Dream Journal 2(1) 1978
(en.wikiped.. photo)
“I see that I built that ladder…” InsIghtful.
WHERE IN THE WORLD DID THIS PAGE COME FROM? Petru? Is it you?…Rob?
This image is so striking to me. Surrounded by blinding darkness, there is still light if we can just see it, and then take the courageous step to climb out of the darkness and into that light. It may only be one step at a time and each step may seem too much to handle but each step up is a step further away from down.
The power is within each of us, we just have to find it and hold onto it. No one can save us – we have to save ourselves. In this image, I don’t see that someone offered the ladder to help; instead I see that I built that ladder, one rung at a time, and the further I get towards the light, the more light shines upon me.
I have come along way from the girl who couldn’t see the light, the girl who…
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(Gestalt Goodbyes include appreciatons, resentments, and regrets.)
Things that I appreciated about you, Daddy: your encouraging me to write creatively; your encouraging me to draw; your teaching me and coaching me to play tennis; your intelligence and lively mind; your sense of humor , and the day I left my homework at home and you chased the city bus downtown to give it to me.
Things I resented about you: your lack of work ethic; your lying in bed all the time you were home; your sense of entitlement –it seemed you thought the world owed you a lot that you really didn’t deserve; the way you treated Mother; your molesting me; your scrambling my mind with conflicting messages about sex and life; your lack of insight into your problems; your being willing to subject the family to your alcoholic lifestyle; your insising I return home when I had the chance at a much better life with my maternal grandparents; you frightening me when you straggered through the house.
Last weekend I was sorting out some photos of local city landmarks taken last summer during some of my walking adventures.
Suddenly I spied some photos that I’d meant to divert into a separate folder on my computer and mark up as a future blog post.
Somehow I missed these at the time and now it’s highly overdue that these get a little publicity in my little corner of blogsville.
These amazing billboards had been put up in the center of the city and they captivated not just my lens but also my heart.
There was a text billboard with an explanation of the purpose of the exhibition, here’s a copy of the text:
The 101 portraits in this exhibition consists of, are meant to provide a peek into the world of Down Syndrome.
A world that turns out to be utterly different from the usual stereotypes: pitiful children with…
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Part OneAccording to Henri Bergson, “Stored memories aspire to the light, but do not even try to rise to it…they know that I, as a living and acting being, have something else to do…but suppose that I am asleep. Then these memories…have raised the trap door which has kept them beneath the floor of consciousness, arise from the depths; they rise, they move, they perform in the night of unconsciousness a great danse macabre. They rush together to the door which has been left ajar.”
Congratulations, and welcome to us “outs.”
America has a sickness. Not just America. All over the world there are children keeping secrets. Secrets too horrible to confess to anyone. Secrets that influence a lifetime. Secrets for which too many children and adults believe they are responsible. That secret festers like a virus slowly suffocating hope, killing our ability to love or trust and blinding us to our dreams. It cripples us at the deepest, most sacred part of our being.
The people we love the most hurt us the deepest. The people charged with protecting us from harm injure us the worst. The people who should be shaping our future steal it from us. Instead of pulling us up to be our best they tear us down to believe the worst. Abuse, whether emotional or physical is an incomprehensible betrayal devoid of conscience.
Some people will pay a psychologist to chip away the years of suppression…
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