Divided

Siblings and Complex PTSD

I cannot describe
how deep
the wound goes.

When I lost my
brother – he was
only seven and
I was only three.

After that
we shared
the same house.

We fought
and shunned
one another.

Neither one aware
of the poison
that forced us apart.

Quiet Grace

poetry Quiet Grace

Grace walks a tip toe, and
is by nature a quiet soul, not
inclined to boastful words.

Grace speaks loudest
where no words are found,
in the embrace,
in comfort given,
in peace and even, yes,
in defense of the vulnerable.

Grace is gentle,
but never mistake
that for weakness.

Because it is only grace
that dares to walk the path
which can save us from ourselves.

A Brief Ode to 2020

2020

The one thing certain
About all this uncertainty
Is that all our certainty
Is now certainly uncertain.
And that
The only thing certain
Is uncertainty.

That much is certainly certain.

Bone Deep

Single candle

We were never meant to carry
The shame that goes bone-deep
for any reason,
for every reason,
for no reason.

It is not ours to keep.

THE BINGO FACTORY

Poetry - the bingo factory - complex ptsd

So many symptoms
Laid out
All grid-like

Oh, I see

It’s a game.
I never chose to play
but I play
none-the-less.

Here’s a card
Take the markers
Fill the boxes
Make a line
Can you fill it
Can you feel it.

Every card’s a winner
Every card’s a loser.

Check off those boxes
Fill them with glowing neon
Mark it if you got it
Make it big
Make it bright
Make it loud

Listen to the caller
Your caller will holler
The symptoms

Are they yours?
Are they real?
Are you real?
Is this you?

Find one?
Mark it.
Find two?
Mark it.
Fill your card
With all your flaws.

Have no future?
There’s a tick.
Hate yourself?
There’s a tick.
Don’t know who you are?
That’s good for two.

Self-harm?
Fill a box for every scar.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Count them up.

Or bomb-like
Count them down.

Doesn’t matter.
Every card’s a winner.
Every player’s a loser.

Who’s close?
Who’s close?

Spin the wheel again.

Flashbacks?
Anxiety?
Depression?
Oh, we be rollin’ now.

Suicidal ideat-

BINGO!

Fuck me.
I win.

Threshold

At twenty I stood
Upon the threshold
To my life
And I thought
Well, maybe next year.

At thirty I stood
Upon the threshold
To my life
And I thought
Did I leave the stove on?

At fourty I stood
Upon the threshold
To my life
And I thought
I should stay, for Dad.

At fifty I stood
Upon the threshold
To my life
And I thought.

Raindrop

Heavy raindrops fall
Splashing on my glasses
Blinding me to all.

Michael takes away
The lenses that warp my sight
With a tender kiss.

Giving me shelter
From the chaos of my past
I cling to his strength

His oak to my ivy.
His sun to my rain.

Poetry Battle: Bliss

The prompt and the week that it is attached to sometimes are not in sync. This is the situation reflected in this entry to the poetry battle. The prompt was : Bliss.

The word repels me.
Turned its back on me.
So I turn away in turn.
Sore.
Ignored
And bruised.
It denies me its presence
So I deny its existence.
I will be
Barren stone
To being a fool
Waiting
Longer
Longing
For rain
To bloom.

Poem: Glitter dust

poem glitterdust

Talk to me of whilom days.
Remember them as you speak.
Comfort me with simple lies
of color, joy, and laughter.
Allow me to breathe again,
in a time before the dark.
Fill my mind with glitter dust.

A brief ode to 2020

The one thing certain
About all this uncertainty
Is that all our certainty
Is now certainly uncertain.
And that
The only thing certain
Is uncertainty.

That is certainly certain.