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Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Letting Go

She can ride the thermals,
Spread her wings, glide.
Effortless, wonderful.
But warmth has gone,

And so she flaps.

She works hard to hold the sky. 
She fights to live aloft.
She wearies,
And keeps flapping,

Flapping.

Below water's top she sees it.

Dark predator shape moving.
She sees, remembers, understands.
And keeps flapping,
Flapping.

Weary and hungry,

A wave shows silver food,
Moving fast, slipping away.
The instant is here.
She folds.

Wings pressed tight to body,

She releases her hold on sky.
Stops flapping,
Folds her wings,
And plummets.

See the beauty and the courage
In that plummet.
See the trust in her Warrior Self.
See the divine Surrender.
Watch in awe.

What strength and grace,

To trust the 'verse,
To trust her Self,
Enough to Let Go.
To. Just. Let. Go.

We adore the glide, the grace.
That is her True Self.
We admire the flap, the fight.
That is her True Self.

Love also the plummet.

The surrender to the void.
That. Is. Her. True. Self. Too.

And there is no greater strength,

No more powerful choice,
No better courage,
Than that truth.
That trust.
Just. That.

© Kit, 31 January 2012



Thursday, December 1, 2011

Start All The Clocks

"The whole range," they said.
Grief. Fear. Anger. Ennui.
But... Happiness?
Happiness? Seriously?

Even Joy?


My mind rebels as my heart turns.

Surely not Happiness.
It isn't right. Doesn't fit.
Does. Not. Belong. Here.

And yet... Here it is.

The love of friends.
Sudden, unexpected humour.
Beauty, so rich it feeds my soul.

Perhaps life just continues.

Perhaps Auden's clocks don't stop.
Perhaps there is space for mirth.
For laughter, love, and yes...

Even Happiness.


This is Reality.

This Sometimes Joy.
I will hold to it. Live it. Accept it.
Yes. The whole range.


© Kit, 1 December 2011

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Healing Pain

Hollowed out. Empty. Numb.
She hides from the horror,
But knows she will be found.
Inevitably, the memory will return.

She sleeps.
Guarding her heart, despairing
Despondent, Disconsolate.
An unavailing attempt to escape the past.

The ache in her chest spreads.
Awakens her again.
Threatens to crack.
To break her.

A pharmacopeia beside her,
She seeks slumber's solace once more.
Fear pursues her into the arms of Hypnos.
Reality fades.

A temporary reprieve.

Sweet, gentle sleep. Bless├ęd slumber.
But, even then, she dreams.
Faceless fears clutch at her.
Nameless pain tears at her.

She wakes. And weeps.
Memory walks with Morpheus.
There is no defence for that.
No respite, no rest.

She breathes.

Slowly, she puts hand to chest.
Feels the ache.
Holds it. Owns it.
Allows it just to Be.

The healing pain begins.



© Kit, 29 November 2011
 

Monday, November 28, 2011

Memory without mercy

Memory crept quietly
Trickled in like a distantly heard melody
Haunted the periphery of her consciousness
Appeared in glimpses, in colours, in faded flickers of vision

But then... she turned to face it
And it flooded over, around, and through her
Without mercy, it drenched her in a cold sweat of realisation
Without sparing her, it drowned rationality in a wash of fear

Pain, nearly four decades distant, tore through her
As the memory assaulted her, wrecked her, broke her
Fear, the fear of that day, was there in the room with her
Palpable, beating down heavily on her chest, crushing her

This young girl - she didn't understand
     (How could she?)
Wept with deep grief, mourning lost innocence
     (Though she knew it not)
And, finally seen again, she reached outward... needed healing
And the woman grown recoiled... freshly afraid of this apparition, this horror

This part of her Self: exiled, abandoned, rejected
This girl, a fabric of pain and fear and grief, no longer a part of her
This child, a lifetime ago: alone, terrified, molested, sullied
The woman fought to be free. She wanted out. She wanted...

The. Memory. Gone.

This one mercy, it could not grant.



© Kit, 24 November 2011

Her Left Foot

She stared, transfixed.
Her left foot had captured her mind.
It locked her thoughts
And froze them in place.


It had dried now.  The blood.
She stared at the place
Where it had lodged between her toes,
Where it crusted against her cuticles.

It pained her,
But it didn't hurt.
She couldn't feel it.
The injury, though, was soul deep.

Blood.  Fallen from a place of mystery.
In her mind the blood was all that was left.
The only proof of her fear.  Of her pain.
She would not remove it.

And, being a child of bare feet,
She dared the world to see it;
To understand it;
To acknowledge it.

She couldn't speak of it.
But her left foot spoke.
"Here it is.  Injury testified."
"Here is the blood of her fear and pain."

See it.  And know.
See it.  And recognise.
See it.  And understand.
See it.  And do not look away in shame.

And yet...
Nothing was too shocking 


To. Be. Ignored.

She closed her eyes.
And still she could see it.
How could they not see it?
How could they not know?

How could they?

She closed her eyes.
And still she could see it.
Though the bath water washed it from her.
They scrubbed it away... forcibly... without speaking.

Her pain, her grief, her fear, her confusion.
All washing down the drain
In a rush of soap and water
With a small piece...

Of her soul.

Gone.  Erased.  Forgotten.

Her left foot was clean.
It no longer spoke for her.
It was silent, clean,
And numb.

Four decades later
Her left foot spoke to her.
"Here it is.  Injury testified."
"Here is the blood of your fear and pain."

She reached down, and it pained her,
But it didn't hurt.
She couldn't feel it.
She felt nothing.



© Kit, 26 November 2011