The Dance: Haiku

Missteps lead to grace
Do we dance or just stumble
Until bruised toes heal

Lynn Mari, © 2009

Empty Spaces: Haibun

I stand amid empty spaces. The walls called “home “ have crumbled. Concrete sidewalks welcome weary feet. I have become the man sleeping on the curb. The woman pushing the stained stroller, bags bundled in the bottom. The pale child standing in line at outside an alley kitchen. It has happened to me. Homeless. My strength lies in knowing that from the ruins, remain a scattering of brick and broken lumber—this is the strongest, the foundation. From these I will rebuild my life.

Don’t fear displacement
the final sigh of the wind
will bring the lost home.

Lynn Mari, © 2009

Assembling Thunder (Revolution)

Naked minds burning under smoldering books, kissed by revolution
Not far off, the working man cries revolution! Rise,
Rise with raised fists — A child now a soldier: revolution is strong
And the world will be watching, from empty seats
And not watching, as bodies tumble, one against the other.

Naked vessels, devoid of belief, rise
The little drops of sweat course into rivers of placenta,
An aborted generation curls into smoke that drifts
Into newly built empires, pyramids of glistening bones.

Oh, an uncensored sound escapes;
The rally of the nonexistent soul against tyranny
The passionate cry, of a poet’s naked mind, burning.

Ashen faces, hands and lips whisper revolution
Wander over all the earth, assembling thunder
Rise! Oh, may freedom never dissolve into acrid smoke.

Lynn Mari, ©2007

Written for a writing challenge on Pablo Neruda.
Thought this poem could also commerate the end of Castro’s reign of terror. Pray for the people of Cuba. Viva!

“Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach…” — Pablo Neruda

In the Portrait of the Mirror: a Villanelle

In the portrait of the mirror and I
My secret disfigurement is seen
A spark remains in my eye.

To the world I bare only the tears I cry
Scars emerge in the silvery sheen
In the portrait of the mirror and I.

Beauty and confidence lie
Silver confronts the disguises I preen
A spark remains in my eye.

Though scarred, silvered glass won’t deny
An inner strength on which I lean
In the portrait of the mirror and I.

I hide, seeking the darkness of the night sky
I am found by the silvery moon, reflecting the unseen
A spark remains in my eye.

Looking in the mirror as my features die
Stripped layer by layer, my faith remains keen
In the portrait of the mirror and I
A spark remains in my eye.

Lynn Mari, ©2008.

Note: I was inspired to write “In the Portrait of the Mirror” after hearing the story of Lee Thomas, a TV news anchor diagnosed with vitaligo. After suffering with illness for many years, and still no cure, I was moved very deeply by Lee’s story, and could relate on many levels (though I could not possibly understand, my heart goes out). Thanks to Lee for sharing your story and giving courage and hope to so many The beauty you possess is not meant for the eye to see but for the soul to receive.

Book Excerpt: ‘Turning White’. CNN.com
http://www.cnn.com/2008/US/01/07/turning.white/

Lee Thomas: ‘Would Other People See a Monster?’by Jessica Hornig. ABC News, 1/3/2007.
http://abcnews.go.com/Health/story?id=4075652

NPR: Lee Thomas on ‘Turning White’, 12/3/2007.
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=16836642

A Survivor is Born

Naked, crawling
Beneath a sky of blazing thorns
Flesh seared, pink, raw
Burned,
Bruised,
Blistered
Awash in rain and blood
As thunder threatens
To collapse the heavens
A survivor is born
To hold the sky
To raise a voice
Against the defeaning roar
With the strength of a single tear.

Lynn Mari ©2007

Birthing Tears

Heart beats wildly in the empty circle of my arms
A plea for a child gone too soon, tears

Hands press on my belly, where your head once lay
Tears confess the ignored voice of the powerless

A lullaby lost in clinical pronouncement
Your cries silent, tears crusted in still eyes

Smooth the last golden strands on your pillow
Hold fast, tears, let not one be forgotten

Memories of your small hand clasped in mine
Tears fall in torrents, cheek brushed by silver wings

Stories untold linger in the hollow of my throat
The night is cold, scarred womb birthing tears.

Lynn Mari ©2007

The Bastard is Dead

Dedicated to a friend who fought to be heard
Warning: Graphic Poem, Descriptions of Abuse May Cause Triggers

The bastard is dead
I can hardly believe it
I have waited so long
For this moment
Standing on a platform,
Watching the departure
Of a steel coffin
Silver like an Amtrak
Headed for hell.

I look at his folded hands
Hands that closed over perjured prayers
Hands that gripped my neck, squeezing
Until my scream was silenced
Hands that slipped a golden band
On Momma’s slender finger
Hands that held me on one knee
Hands that reached under my dress
Are now hands crisscrossed with blue veins
A small bruise has congealed over a puncture
Though carefully brushed with powder
I see the secret bruise
After years of denial,
I can hardly believe the truth
The bastard is dead
His cold skin soothes
Fevered memories.

His blue-gray eyes,
Once the color of a thundering sky
Now are sewn tightly shut
Black threads knotted against his cheek
Hold back the lightning in his stare
Eyes that crinkled when he laughed
Eyes that fixed on me, so intently
Eyes that promised Momma forever…

In the morning Momma untangled her body
From his sweaty embrace, kissing his sunken cheek
Momma opened the curtains at daybreak
And smiled as his eyes blinked open
Those blue-gray eyes made her heart flutter
Momma stood against the raging storm,
Smoking a cigarette and doing crosswords
The storm beat against the windows
So Momma closed the paisley curtains
Torrents of rain fell from crescent clouds
Whipping the curtains in a wailing wind
In the morning calm following the storm
Momma set breakfast on the table
Forcing a smile, she encouraged me to eat
I choked on every bite,
Tasting his sour odor in my mouth.

Cancer has freed me from
His bruising kiss
In the final moments
His lips were cracked and dry
After years of crude jokes,
Of country ballads sung in raspy alto
Of loathed affections
Sweetie, baby, angel…
He lips did not move
Momma joined a battalion
of silent witnesses who cry
as his body disintegrates
No tears were shed for me
They stand shoulder to shoulder
One face so like another
Forming a wall of resilient silence
Ensuring the family shame
Will never be spoken of
Careful smiles on blank faces
I cannot tell the living
From the dead.

I was tortured every second
He remained alive,
From bed, his hand reached towards me
To pull my ponytail from the binder
Slowly stroking my loosened hair,
Sweetie, angel, baby…
His eyes lingered on my shaking body
He fumbles with the hem of my skirt
I slapped his hand away
He began to sing a country ballad
Crooning as his hands pulled my hair
Yanking hard until I gasped
Yanking until his chest rattled
The machines wildly beeped
I leaned close,
To force him to look into my eyes
I stood amidst the storm,
Summoning memory
The darkness of the hospital
Became the darkness of the bedroom
When I fought to breathe
He pushed my face into the pillow
I cursed the shining moon
For looking away as a star
Was so brutally ripped from the sky.

I hope he felt violated by cancer
That his cells were penetrated without consent
And his dreams, were inflicted with nightmares
I hope assurances were spoken
With indifferent politeness
As the needle was plunged through
His fragile vein, bruising his hand
I hope he felt small and afraid
As his face lay against the pillow,
Submitting to a sterile catheter
I hope his mind was awake
As cancer squeezed his wrinkled neck
He struggled for air
As cancer hummed a country ballad
In his ear, pulling him close
He shook with pain
As cancer demanded silence
He bled from within hidden places
This disease was much gentler
Than he had ever been to me.

I hope he pressed
The call light desperately
That his pleas went unanswered
Just as my cry was ignored
I hope he pressed the morphine pump
Again and again and again
I hope that the yearning for escape,
Only brought him more pain
I hope that in his last days
He felt bitter heartache
When he reached for Momma,
She retreated in crosswords,
No longer able to help
She asked for me to sit by his side
I tell my story as he begs me to stop
I pretend I cannot hear his feeble whimper.

I tell him that I craved recognition
In the first kind words offered
Beautiful, special, smart…
I believed the sweetened lies
Forever, I promise, You’re all I need…
I craved gentleness from hands so eager
To caress my bruised body
It would have been better
To take without pretense
I was nothing but a piece of ass
To the men who took advantage
And left as the curtains were parted
In the morning light
I would imagine the feeling of love
When the storm had calmed,
Leaving only a few drops of rain on my skin
That quickly dried, leaving no traces
A rainbow arched overhead just for me
Special, baby, forever…
Meant something, if only for a moment.

I watch as he dies in utter humiliation
His limp penis is crusted with piss
Drool slides down his crumbling face
His legs are useless, weighted down
By feet swollen to the size of boulders
In his last days, his voice was
A hollow echo from a soulless vessel
I watched as he felt the sting
Of the needle stabbing into
His parched skin, searching for a vein
His flesh remained unyielding
I watched as he could not drink
And died from a thirst unmet
I watched as he swallowed bitter memories
In our moments alone,
I forced him to remember.

The train has arrived
A mighty roar announces its arrival
Sultry steam is curled around the hospital bed
A grim conductor ushers him inward
Afraid, he will struggle
He will gasp for breath
The whistle is blown,
Time to depart
The machine emits a single whir
There will be no farewell
I shrug, then walk to the cafeteria
A mocha latte, please
I return to his hospital room
For the flowers by his bed
they belong to me–
a petal for every tear shed.

I stand over his casket
And thank God
That my prayer was answered
The bastard is dead
A key to the pain he inflicted,
A charm on a golden chain,
Is dropped into the earth
I can lock the door
He will never intrude again.

Lynn Mari, ©2007.

Child Sexual Abuse: Domestic Violence and Incest Resource Center
http://www.dvirc.org.au/HelpHub/ChildSexualAbuse.htm

National Runaway Switchboard
http://www.1800runaway.org/

Sexual Abuse of Children/Child Trauma Academy
http://www.childtrauma.org/CTAMATERIALS/sexual_abuse.asp

Stop It Now: Prevent Child Sexual Abuse
http://www.stopitnow.com/mn/

When Trust Is Lost: Healing For Victims Of Sexual Abuse
http://rbc.org/bible_study/discovery_series/booklet/31136.aspx

Called by Name: Reflections on Domestic Violence

Those who have screamed “Why?!”
To a vast and empty sky,
Never wanting to be a victim,
Their bodies, their souls, their very thoughts
Brutalized, forced into silence
Now proclaim a war cry.

Those of us who grieve for our children
Who will never know what they have lost
Grieve stolen lives, stolen innocence
Children not able to comprehend what was done—
Resist the arms that hold them
Because they fear love itself
So love needs to be reclaimed.

Those of us who have held the broken bodies
Who have lost someone we love to violence,
At the hands of someone we thought of as family
Are bruised and wounded in our very memories
From those bruises we find places to heal,
Amidst hidden places of strength.

God comforts those who suffer,
To find insight
where there is emptiness
And joy where there is sorrow,
So that violence will not defeat
what is good in humanity.

Isaiah 40: 26, “Look up at the sky! Who created the stars you see? The one who leads them out like an army, He knows how many there are and calls each one by name! His power is so great—not one of them is ever missing!”

If you are an emergency sitaution dial 911

FOR MORE INFORMARTION:

Domestic Violence Shelter Tour (Safe Horizon, NY)
http://www.safehorizon.org
http://www.safehorizon.org/page.php?nav=sb&page=sheltertour

Escaping Hades: A Rape and Sexual Abuse Survivor’s Site
http://www.healthyplace.com/Communities/abuse/lisk/index.html

National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-SAFE (7233)
TTY: 1-800-787-3224 (TTY)

Farmer Tony & the Online Heifer

When I was holding you
your mind was someplace else
your fingers drummed on my flesh
like the tapping of keys.

When I was cooking your dinner
your appetite was someplace else
your hunger was all-consuming
once Windows booted up.

When I was washing your clothes
your attention was someplace else
your scum soiled your pants
as you huddled over the blinking screen, jerking.

When the mess you made piled around me
your concern was someplace else
your lover was there
downloaded from the farm (mooo!).

When you see me again
your computer will be packed
your memory will be erased
I Control-Alt-Delete you from my life.

Grace of Wynn, ©2006

For my Twista Sista, Stay Strong…Love You!

“Hairball”

Curled on one side,
a matted ball of fur
small legs twisted
eyes pinched shut
just another city rat
dead by a dumpster
would have been forgotten
and discarded
if not loved
by two homeless children
who saw his small body,
his twisted limbs,
his matted fur,
and named him “Hairball”.

Sissie saw him first,
the clump of fur
with pink claws curled at his chest
who did not respond to her gentle voice
calling his new name– “Hairball”.
Sissie peered into “Hairball’s”
pinched shut eyes
and tenderly,
watched over him
Though forbidden to touch
or go near–Sissie cared for him
in her own little girl way
singing all the songs she knew
dropping blades of grass for food
and always–stopping to look over his rigid body.

Sissie showed “Hairball” to Brother
who at first was repulsed by the dead rat
then drawn in by the small body
so all alone on the cold pavement
Brother adopted “Hairball”
and gave him a home
in his broken heart
When Brother felt alone or scared
“Hairball” would come to life,
running on a wheel inside his little boy mind
Faster and faster “Hairball” ran
as the little boy
screamed, raged and threw his fists
against all the hurt he felt
until exhausted the little boy curled into a ball
small fists clenched at his chest,
he would open his eyes
and through the tears, would see Sissie
standing over him, offering a smushed cracker.

“Hairball” is an unlikely pet for an ordinary child
But for two homeless children,
the dead rat with the tiny pink feet
and the gray matted fur
became what they could love.

Grace of Wynn, ©2006