Hear the Wails

I focused on the black and yellow markings of a cricket, watched my pain merge its colors into a liquid blur. The Burmans made dinner—dandelion greens with garlic, by the smell and weediness of the screams.

They were good people, took me in and treated me humanely, after other foster families had used faith and fist to beat their demons out of me. But why can’t they hear the wails of the flowers?

I closed my mind to the hurt, but one flower broke through. “I see you,” she said. “I burn in the dark, peeking through your heart.”

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the wee notes…
– Linked to Friday Fictioneers. Visit Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog, to join the writing fun. Follow this LINK, to read what others have written out of the cricket.
– The markings of the cricket brought to mind a blackout poem I crafted some weeks back. The flower I drew on the blackout, plus the wee poem itself, reminded me of the young protagonist of “The Dark Place”, the last story in my Blooming Howls collection. I decided to write today’s tale from her point of view. It was nice—and devastating—to write her again.

photo by Shaktiki Sharma

I see you.
I am in the dark
peeking
through your heart.

In Her Bones, a Storm

“…those move easiest who have learn’d to dance.” ~ An Essay on Criticism, by Alexander Pope

The quivering of his knees, the clenching of her fist, the darkening of their eyes… tell my spine their bones feel the urge to break in classic agony dance. The brown keeping my skull from the bleaching kiss of the sun has met no homelessness, but my brain knows of being unwanted. My heart feels their feels—We must be human together, or we will be nothing.

My soul echoes the Colossus wail: “The ‘tempest-tossed’ can’t breathe with stone walling their throats, with water drowning the life out of truth.” The quivering of his knees, the clenching of her fist, the darkening of their eyes… My heart breaks.

in her bones, a storm
howls of broken dawns and shame,
of hearts bought and sold

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the
(not so) wee notes…
– A friend said she felt terrible to see how my physical “pain has worsen” these days. It really hasn’t, so I asked what made her think so. She told me, “I can always see your pain in your poetry.” To her, and to anyone who is feeling bad for me—thinking that my Crohn’s and my other chronic illnesses have gotten worse—I want to say that they haven’t. My body hasn’t made any leaps towards full recovery, but things are stable. The pain, outrage, tiredness… you have been reading in my poetry and prose are reflections of the current socio-political state of affairs. Pain is contagious… for people with feeling hearts, working minds, seeing eyeballs…

– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (Tuesday Platform), and to Prompt Nights Writing is both mask and unveiling… Battle of the Bards: Choose a famous bard—William Shakespeare, Robert Burns, William Cowper, William Wordsworth, Alexander Pope—and pick out a poem or quote (that inspires you best) from their works and prepare to launch into battle! I chose to dance with a bit of Pope. And yes, I also borrowed a few words (and sentiments) from “The New Colossus”, by Emma Lazarus.

Created out of words from Edgar Allan Poe and Sigmund Freud magnetic poetry kits poems. The background is a detail from “Blooming Howls”, a painting by Gina Morley, inspired by my short story collection of the same name. When I placed the Poem Bit over it, I thought of the Statue of Liberty. Partly because of the color, mostly because of the agony I see on her face. It looks as if she feels the pain of the entire world, and the horror turns her insides into screams.

Unsaid Words Will Die Screaming

Quiet not
the raging mouth that sings
differently tuned

songs, which swim
with conviction, with outrage…
with words you’ve never held
between tongue and teeth.

Living words (and people)
will not be muzzled
without cruelty (or war)

unsaid words
fight to become.
Let them…
(we must)
be something,

do something,
say something…
or lose
everything.

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the wee notes…
– On these days of turmoil and unease, we must remember that everyone has the right to state their peace, even if we don’t quite care for the thoughts oozing out of their pie-holes. Stillborn words will rot… and once the festering takes hold, everyone must suck in the stench.
– After I finished expanding the poem bit, I realized that I reversed two words from the original blackout. I wrote “unsaid words” instead of “words unsaid”. I left it like that. I like how it flows.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (Tuesday Platform).
– Hm… it seems I’ve contracted severe ellipses again… *sigh*.