There is an empty river bed,
Where water should be rushing through,
Dried leaves and trash won’t move.
A currentless waste land.
Broken branches lie
Torn from life
Senseless beginning to end
Broken broken broken
the promises made by mother-nature.
Longing for life, but listless still.
Nothing to feed or house the beauty of life.
An empty grave, a hollow womb.
Can we say goodbye?
We never got to say hello.
No name, nothing, and still nothing.
The world is big, but you were so small.
I am left wondering if you were ever here at all.
I lost a pregnancy in June. This is the first thing I have written since. I know I need to write. So here it is. I am not interesting in corrections. So I blogged it.
I am going to spend my day doing reviews and seeing what I can do to write again. My heart is still broken. I have faith I can find myself again.
After a long week, an even longer few months, a few things have become pitifully clear. Like Kenny Rogers says “you gotta know when to fold em’.”
So I folded on a 5 year friendship. I am sad. I am not ignorant of the role I played in the destruction. I am just done shouldering every ounce of culpability. I am a very flawed girl. I do not deny any of them.
I have no ill will. The petty jabs only confirm my resolve. No need to talk about it. I just want us all to live to love another day. Be free, safe, and loved.
Indeed a powerful word. The word invokes a wide variety of possibilities. To me it’s a moment when failure is accepted. The haunting moment I realize I can’t or won’t win. When hope no longer allows fragments of her energy to linger however, distantly near.
Today I left the T.V. on after General Hospital. Listening to bits and pieces of Dr. Phil while I dusted and vacuumed. I sat down for a camel and coffee break. Just as I lit up Oprah came on. I typically cannot stand watching Oprah. Nothing against her personally. I actually admire her. I just find the talk show annoying. Today was different. Shirley Maclaine was her guest.
I am a huge fan. So despite myself I watched. Doing some minor cleaning during the commercial breaks. She is a very interesting woman. I highly recommend her books to anyone who is not familiar with her writing. She spent most of the broadcast talking about her Rat Pack days, childhood with Warren Beatty, and love affairs. As well as her interesting beliefs in things like aliens, reincarnation, and the Mayan calendar.
The reward for listening to Oprah talk for an hour came with in the last 5 minutes of the show. She asked Shirley how she came up with the title of her new book “I’m over all that”. She went into the story of turning down multiple ideals and her partner finally saying “at least we have the title”. Oprah then asked her how she writes. Shirley said she does not outline a plot. She just surrenders and writes. This struck a chord with me.
For the first time I finally got the positive meaning. It is not that I have never had the word come across in this very context. But it always felt awkward to me. As if the writer or speaker used it merely for lack of a better word.
I wonder if “surrender” found me today for a reason. I will certainly let you know. Stay tuned folks this ain’t over yet…
Recently I have been practicing yoga. I realize writing is a lot like working out. The more effort I put in the more obvious the results. Maybe realization will spark action. Motivate me into doing something aside from thinking about a book idea. All of the poems I have been writing read like adolescent suicide letters. I suppose my rage is a bit immature. But I want my writing to clearly explain what I see and feel. I read Sexton. Sometimes I feel like she is reading my thoughts to me. She started late and was a special kind of crazy. So there is always hope.
It can be a wonderful hobby, a creative passion, even a therapeutic outlet. However for a writer, at least this one, it can be a challenging enemy. Thoughts and phrases blur before they can even be written. Idea’s that can never be realized taught your dreams. A rather maddening cycle.
I hate the struggle. The war against imagination and expression. Its like my heart wants to write and my head knows I can’t!
I foolishly believed time had hindered my dreams of writing. Turned out that was only part of the problem. The exhausting reality is, I lack follow through. Deciding to scrap an idea is easier then perfecting it. The is issue: What do you do when you have scrapped every valid idea?
You’re left with a white screen (or blank paper) and a hallow feeling in your soul.
What is gal to do? Dig through the trash? Perhaps think of different solutions? Put down the pen and walk away?
I have never been one for dumpster diving and quitting never sets well with me. I am not sure how, but I will get through this. There are stories that need to be told, there are emotions that must be expressed. I can sink or swim, today I chose to swim.
Separate names with a comma.