This is About Trees

Today
I have been thinking
About the last
twelve months of my life

I could write about
the trauma
or the night of the assault
or that other night
of the almost assault
or the disappointment
or even the ever present
disillusionment
or the recurring
states of transition
or the pain

Or the hopes
and dreams
and fantasies
and failures
and losses

But really
It’s the Trees

They have been
my constant
companions
throughout my journey

And they have been
my best friends

So this is about Trees

Trees of England
Trees of Georgia
Even the trees
of New Orleans
And especially
The Black Hills
of the Dakotas
that taught me
Forgiveness
And that sometimes
even the mighty fall

And now I am
mesmerised
by the the tall pines
of British Columbia

I can feel them
watching over me,
on this,
the last leg
of my too long journey

And even though
I have been
weakened
by events
out of my control
they share
their strength with me
whisper to me
in the cold night air
make me believe
that I just might
make it
on my strength
alone

I am not strong
But I am
surrounded
by the strong
and just maybe
that is enough

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The Trees of British Columbia

Silence

I have lost my voice

Oh, I can write about my feelings
Sometimes

But the gift
Of conversation
Seems to have deserted me

I find myself sinking
Into silence
And liking it there

There was a time
When he said
He liked that about us

He liked that we could sit
On the sofa next to each other
In complete silence
For long periods of time
And find comfort in it

And some nights
After long days
His head would fall back
And he would fall asleep
And I found comfort
In that also

But those days are gone
It’s just me now
Looking for comfort
In my own silence

Letting Love Find You

 

Love catches you by surprise
And sometimes
It grows into something
Brighter and larger
Than the sun

Glory in that
Remember that

Because
Sometimes
Reality
Rears its fearsome head

And even though
That love will probably
Never die

Sometimes
Just sometimes

It has to be set aside

But those memories
Those nights of kisses
You thought could never
Possibly end
Do

Still

Never stop
Letting love
Catch you by surprise

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Nothing Will Ever Be Okay

When I was a very little girl
Nine, ten, maybe
My mother
Would come home from work
Kick her stilettos off
I think they made her feel taller
Made her feel stronger
Like the cruelty of the world
Had not already defeated her

She would collapse on our
Hard hand me down sofa
And cry for hours
I would wrap my tiny little arms
Tightly around her neck
And hold on to the storm
That was my mother
That broken woman who nurtured me
Into the woman I am now

I would whisper,
“Shhh. It’s going to be okay.”
And she would hold on tight
To the little girl that believed
In a God that would make
Everything okay

Now I’m an old woman
Who refuses to wear stilettos
Who knows she’s not tall
Or strong
Who knows God very rarely
Makes everything okay

It’s morning now
And I have not slept
In England the blackbirds would be singing

I can hear a song in my head
The Verve
“Now the drugs don’t work
They just make it worse”

Still

The klonopin bottle beckons
And I want to take enough to sleep
Through tomorrow
And the next today too

And forget
That nothing will ever
Be okay again

On the Season of Lent

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Forty days and forty nights.
As I battle my own demons
I wonder,
not for the first time,
how He did it,
how he managed
to crawl out of the desert
with his soul and heart intact.

I’ve lost track of the days.
I don’t where we are
in this dark Lenten season.
I can’t remember
when Easter comes.
Rebirth seems too far away,
or maybe it won’t even happen.
The days are too dark
and the nights too sleepless.

Someone I love is battling demons
I can’t even imagine
while my Dark Night of the Soul
seems endless.

I pray to a God
I could swear
has stopped listening
and when I can’t pray anymore,
I find my lips mouthing
His prayer unconsciously…

Our Father
Who art in Heaven

Deliver me
Deliver us all

4 March 2016, Athens, Georgia

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Anglo Saxon church of St James the Less, Lancing, West Sussex, England by me

The Butterfly Monologue

I found this so beautiful.

An Upturned Soul

Hibernating butterfly

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“The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.”
― Rabindranath Tagore

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Diary entry day 1:

After a long season of arduous work, it is finally time to balance the scales.

I have found a most pleasing piece of real estate for my hibernation.

This year I chose not to go where the other butterflies go. It’s getting too crowded in that old ramshackle barn, there are far too many other butterflies using it, not to mention the mosquitoes, bees, wasps, and hornets, spiders and an assortment of scurrying things. It’s also rather draughty and dusty, not a good combination. My wings… oh, dear… I don’t want to have to clean them the way that I did last year, rain showers are not good for them!

I shall spend the night here to decide if my choice is going to be a permanent Winter residence.

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Birdsong

 

I can hear the constant hum
Of my little space heater
And noisy notifications
From multiple devices
Warning me of flash floods
And dire happenings

And I can hear my roommate
Who over night turned into Nemesis
Moving around his apartment
I can’t hear my heart anymore
If I stop I can feel the beat of my heart
But it’s really just the rush of blood
Traveling too fast through my body

Some days I can almost control the panic
But, this little introvert, lives in a glass house
While Nemesis watches, waiting
For the next dignity to strip away
Until I am completely without spirit
One day soon

I am so very much in love
I used to be his shelter in the storm
Now I am the storm without a calm center
Just one continuous path of destruction
And still he waits for me to slow and stop

And yet if I listen to the hum
Of the space heater with its
Artificial warmth nothing like the sun
And I quiet the fearful thoughts
I can hear the birds sing outside my window

Sometimes
the gift of birdsong
Is all there is
And maybe
all there should be

I will die a thousand deaths

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I will die a thousand deaths
And then I will die a thousand more

And every little tiny death
I add to my increasing store

And some of the bigger deaths
Turn into tales I lock behind my door

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When the River Becomes Your Home

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When the river becomes your home, when Virginia, with stones stuffed deep in her pockets, seems more romantic than tragic, you learn two things about yourself.

First, you were born in the wrong time and second, you’ve reached the limit of what you can handle in this nightmare called life.

It doesn’t mean you won’t go on. It doesn’t mean you won’t keep putting one foot in front of the other. It just means you’ll never be the same. It means the joy of walking is lost in a tempting image of Virginia with stones stuffed deep in her pockets.

Photos by Robin Dalton

Climping Beach, Sussex

Keeping Vigil

She stirs her cauldron
While watching
The stars dance
A unique configuration
A tragedy of timing
Some might say
But still she stirs
And in the mesmerising
Swirl of liquid magic
Spirals down into
Her own abyss
While the stars dance
And the moon watches
Keeping vigil
Waiting
For her safe return

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The Moom on the Beach at Hastings, East Sussex 

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