Slave, or Free?

There will never be
the time
for the time that you must
make. 
There will never be
the day
unless the day you simply
take. 

Intersection

Synchronicity perplexing,

astounding me no end,

proximity and timing pure --

no circumstance need bend.

Time Keeper

Time escaping, fleeing my grasp . . . . .

Music weaves loose ends together at last. 

Tones deep, melodic -- Love molded in sound,

Eternity's heartstrings touching ground.

15,000 Yesterdays

Birdie today singing just like
the birdies
of 15,000 yesterdays ago . . .

a day at the paint store!

Old Mr. N. would mix

the paint:

wooden stick for stirring,

a machine,

a method,

then, the pouring -- 

always the same.

Little Mr. N. . . . . .

Plain, white shirt and

wire-rimmed glasses --

"spectacles."

Like a grandpa.

Never had one.

Claiming the Dawn

"The canvas isn't broad enough!" thought I,

and with the sunrise I jumped up,

taking my hives and my shredded past

out for a ride 

to catch the dawn,

soul expanding with the horizon

to the tunes of pre-Thanksgiving Christmas songs

("Do You Hear What I Hear?"  I do!  I do!),

drumming my pen on the wheel,

wanting to write, drum, and drive all at once;

and the morning bustle was still there

(I had to check) --

trails of cars, headlights streaming in the morning light,

school buses pausing as mine used to do.

Thrilled to be part of the world's pulse was I,

and the clock started ticking again --

this time for me! -- my morning, my sun, my ride --

and back up the driveway I drove,

glowing from the harpsichord rhapsody

of "The Gordian Knot Untied" on 105.9 . . .
needing to celebrate. 

Furtive chase of the dawn completed,

I made the morning coffee

at 8:30 a.m. today 

for the first time in eight years --

two scoops, French Roast organic.

(Better make that four.)

Of Tunnels and Walls

"Today" is like an enigmatic tunnel,

bright and without visible walls,

giving the illusion of

an unobstructed view;

meanwhile,

numerous peripherals
drawn in yesterday's colors

hide behind shadows

that I cannot see,

elusive bricks 

of a forbidding wall

as dense as it is

invisible.

Who can see, after all,

that which one has

forgotten?

Shades of Person

Shades of person

rushing in,

slipping out,

causing a din.

Shades of person

sharing space,

nature torn

behind one face.

Shades of person,

sisters and brothers,

joint knowledge of some things

and not of others.

Shades of person

plus one empty shell:

Guardian only,

but who could tell?

At Bay

The fissure is felt daily

as I move from hour to hour,

an opaqueness in back references

over which I have no power,

a blank between the shorelines

of the old life and the new,

stretching forth to hold at bay

cogent links between the two.

Memory plays hide-and-seek

with signposts abruptly showing

then vanishing all over again --

stashed away beyond my knowing.

Islands

Fragments of a common source,

islands of awareness --

one near,

one far;

one mine,

one not mine . . .

perhaps hers.

And poetry

won't explain her --

she, who, like a spooked horse,

was stopped dead in her tracks
and remains there,
frozen.

Time's Due

Perspective change --

and thoughts cost more,

less able to flit

here and there as before.

More leaden, more fixed,

more concentrated pain,

less able to distract

for momentary gain.

More weighty, more real,

non-negotiable views,

with a strong aversion to

frivolous news.

Get to the bottom line --

don't waste time.

The long, crooked route

is a spiritual crime.

Shift

A sensitive nerve tweaked

by talk of weakness and failings,

then a subtle shift inside.

The poetry changes,

as I am left without a script,

agenda skewed,

lodged on a new plane of thought,

unfamiliar.

Tried to glean the last wind of thought

that passed through,

but to no avail.

Here, there is no

map,

and feelings last forever.

Nothing more to say 
on such a disorienting day.

The Odyssey

Still so confusing,

a superimposed awakening by degrees,

visually jarring each time

as I steal second glances

(keep it smooth, smooth),

and it's just so unheard of,

this Rip Van Winkle feeling

of "'conscious' but still 'coming to.'"

Can't grasp how they've aged this way -- is this real?

Yes, yes, the wrinkles are real -- it's serious.

Now 20 years have passed

and there was this big bridge over this big gap

which I obviously missed crossing (no bridge left for me),

so in the last five minutes I quickly leapt over the chasm.

Late, I'm so late,

don't want to be left behind

(although I really am),

and here I am,

rolling, rolling, 

grass, twigs, and dirt

stuck to my hair and clothes (clean up -- you're a disgrace!)

like a parachutist just

landed

after an emergency exit -- 

20 years ago.

Good luck to me.

Synthesis

A shift to the left,

and the present came into full focus,

herself abruptly inserted back in it --

after months of dislocation

when she'd found herself standing

just to the right of present time,

watching it fly by,

helpless to feel a part, 

unable to claim her place,

lonely for her place,

lonely for herself,

aching for her time --

because this was not her time.

Her time, instead, had merged into that of a

much younger self,

raw, unfinished,

nudged precipitously out into the present

but not part of it,

an energetic fragment

with fervent wishes and dreams

and the vehement "I won't" of youth.

But tonight, all is calm and clear

in present time --
young and old side-by-side,
no decades clashing,
no battle of wills.
From the benevolent heights of peace,

older beholds the younger, willful and alive,

and knows now, as a mother learns her child,

the impossible wishes that can

never be granted.

She knows,

and the knowing must become

the fulfillment.

Pieces of Past

Like a hailstorm

they rain down,

sprinkling the scene:

Torn-off corners and

assorted snatches

of old photographs,

infinitesimal fragments

of glossy snapshots

poised from this angle

and that,

a jumbled jigsaw

of scattered colors,

dim outlines,

and missing sections . . .

all awaiting the Hand that will

retrieve the lost segments,
retouch the fading hues,

and reassemble history
fractioned.

Misplaced

Sad tremors inside,
time flying by me,
me flying by time,
grim feeling overhead,
something ominous,

something outside of the day
pulling me away
from clocks,
from time,
from myself.
I see myself now,
sitting there in the library then,
frantically typing,
dislocated;
how strange time felt.
After 10 minutes (clock sprinting)
the computer asked
if I wanted more time,
and I seized the time --
"Yes! More time!"
because, you see, there's never enough,
never enough time,
before things change abruptly
and slip away
as though they had never been,
and the world around me shifts --
which would be bad enough all by itself --
but then, I also shift.

Which way are we pointing now?
Is grief this bad?
Is this grief?

Reverberations

Borne back in time
by familiar sky and slant of sun,

anxiety streams from every pore,

stomach grinds.

A small wound rips open in the now,

bright sunlight threatening to expose

the gaping one beneath.

Tearless sobs rumble in the depths,

muffled,

like distant thunder
when it rolls through the mountains --

the sound of truth

trying to 

rise.

Heartache vs. Trauma

Some thoughts jotted down to myself a few months ago . . . copied and pasted here with some small additions:

There is a marked difference between what I'll call "heartache" (e.g., long-lasting or recurring sorrow over loss or emotional deprivation) and "trauma."

Heartache can involve sorrow, grief, and all the colors of emotion that raw pain and angst can produce.  Heartache can be intense, persistent, excruciating, depleting . . . but heartache remains "linear," "predictable."  Heartache does not intrinsically bring about a loss of control of one's environment or a direct impact on self-management. 

Trauma, however, involves a "three-dimensional" shock to the entire person.  Whether it is sudden or prolonged, it remains a jarring factor, an intrusion into normality, a severe interruption that shatters one's internal clock and has the capacity to alter everything -- including one's memory, sense of self, metabolism, and neurology.  Trauma, unlike heartache, shakes and rattles everything in its path.  It is the polar opposite of "predictable."  It robs the individual of the dignity of any regular rhythm and sense of control of his environment. 

With heartache, one still retains the capacity to manage one's environment and one's self in a reasonable, predictable manner.  One's basic sense of self remains essentially unchanged.

With trauma, everything of that nature is up for grabs.  One cannot guarantee, for oneself, control of anything.  That certainty, that reliance on predictability, is simply gone.  One's basic sense of self can be profoundly altered. 

Trauma can be accompanied by heartache.  Heartache can be accompanied by trauma.  But the two have different qualities and repercussions.

Apples and oranges can be placed into the same fruit basket, and often are.  But they remain two different fruits.

It is extremely important, therefore, when discussing painful issues with another, to clarify this very crucial difference between the essential quality and repercussions of "grief, loss, and deprivation" -- and the essential quality and repercussions of "trauma."

Why?  Because, for example, one person who has suffered pain and loss but no trauma might be involved in a discussion with another person who has, in fact, been traumatized.  This first person must be made aware that trauma is yet a different animal which must be understood on its own terms.

Because trauma assaults the very self at its core, it has the power to "fog up" the traumatized person's internal approach to daily challenges -- challenges otherwise thought to be "simple" or a "mere matter of employing the will" by the non-traumatized population.  It is the "daily employment of the will," precisely, which has been severely intruded upon -- first by trauma and, later, by its burdensome aftereffects. 

Trauma, therefore, can leave many unjust humiliations and perceived incompetencies in its wake.  The traumatized person may have lost various aspects of memory and, along with those lost aspects of memory, certain life skills or cognitive/emotional processing skills.  Or perhaps these skills were in the process of developing and were then rudely "interrupted" by the trauma.  With even small bits of memory retrieval or reorienting, some or all of these things can come back, rebound, begin again. 

To discuss which thing (e.g., heartache vs. trauma) causes qualitatively "more suffering" and "less suffering" would, of course, be exceedingly ugly and uncharitable.  Suffering cannot be weighed or measured.  Each person's suffering -- whatever it happens to be -- is as much as that person can handle, and that is enough for a listener to know.  Pain is pain.  All pain is worthy of respect, attention, and compassion.

However, if one is attending to heartache in another, one does well to clarify that point to oneself before speaking, so that one speaks appropriately to the true source of difficulty.

Likewise, if one is attending to the repercussions of trauma in another, one had best know that.  The special needs brought about by trauma are simply different and, to many people, quite unexpected.  The angle of approach had better be different if one is to speak intelligently to a victim of trauma.

If an individual person has experienced both heartache and trauma, he obviously cannot be divided into two separate entities.  Still, the distinction applies as much as ever when the two different sources of pain and difficulty exist within the same person.  Each source of distress must be heard and appreciated for what it is.  This may require extra questions and clarifications on the part of the listener. 

It's just so important for one to ask as many questions as necessary of another before blindly assuming, "Ah, I know exactly what you're talking about."

It's supremely important to be perfectly sure that one really does. 

Ellipsis

"Grace before meals" 
waited to be spoken

on a melting summer's day,
sun's yellow-white

splashed with abandon,
glistening on metal.

Corn on the cob, zucchini grilling,

chicken sizzling . . . . . 
Things that taste buds remember.

So hungry was she,

waiting,

waiting,

waiting

for all to sit,

to say "Grace."

(Please, she hoped, let it be soon.)

She looked up to the right,

to the chic white deck chairs,

thinking vaguely about

her mother.

When she looked back

to the table,

all were eating with relish.

Beastly, thought she.

"Grace" neglected -- a disgrace --

and she'd waited so long just to say it.

Outraged within (poised to scold),
she exclaimed,

"We didn't say 'Grace!'"

Silence.

Eyes rose, then heads.

Husband said quietly, "We just did." 

The silence gaped.

She ventured,

"Did I?"

"Yes,"

husband said;

"Yes,"

friend said;

"Yes,"

all eyes confirmed.

The mute deck chairs,
stark and white,

gazed on.

Had they, too, seen her

pray?

Flicker

A flicker of memory

can burst open doors

long closed,

dusty and splintered

on the outside --

radiant and rolling hills

within,

endlessly unfurling . . . . .

Timeless.

Grassy valleys flecked with daisies and lavender,

wild cushions for a child's somersaults

and open-arms dreams

from sunrise to sunset,

to Heaven and back.

Who'd have thought

one could touch Eternity

through a tiny spark

of yesterday?

Nightmare

When seasons did not change

and Spring was dead,

she could not hear the birds sing.

Every day was night,

and the clocks stopped.

Iced up in silence it was,

the ringing in her ears

deafening.

Taut,

tensed,

frozen,
waiting,
she turned 'round
to see herself,

but Memory had slipped

behind

the mirror.