Archive for fear

One Winter’s Night

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 28, 2009 by 1writegirl

One of these nights
When words are
Too heavy
When the darkness is
Too cold

Lay me down
Beside you
Flesh against flesh
Warm and tender
Under llamas wool

Let our dreams
Come and go
Like fingertips

Grazing temples
And souls

In the midst of breath
Between us

Loose
Unbound
And
Gentle

For the duration of
One winter’s night

One blue moon
One light in the shadows

From spellbound dusk
Till breaking dawn

Find reprieve
With me
In the silence

Of night

In the act
Of silent

Communion

The Alter of Illusion

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 17, 2009 by 1writegirl

How else can you find joy in a joyless place
Except by realizing you are not there?

— From A Course in Miracles, received by Helen Schucman

Paths cross
In shadow
And light

In love
And hate

As we stumble
Blindly
Toward the edges

Never knowing what lies
Ahead

Always fearful
Always scarred
Always asking

Why

There is little
If any
Happiness
To be found
Here on earth

Whether alone
Or with someone
By your side

You will still suffer
You will still doubt
You will still want to die

On your bad days

Each of us takes his
Own journey
Even in the arms of
Another
The dance is the joining of
Sorrow and hope

At the alter of illusion

Close Enough To Hold On

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on September 19, 2009 by 1writegirl

He is drowning

I wade in as far as I can
As far as he will let me
Stay back, he yells
I do as he says

Pulling branches from the shore
Extending them in his direction
Grab on, I call
But his arms barely move

I watch his head go under
I am frozen with fear
Then he resurfaces
Eyes wild
Choking on black water

Just leave, he says
Get away while you can
Don’t try and save me

Don’t be a fool

But something rises inside me
I dare not give it a name
And this time I don’t listen
To what he tells me to do

Instead I reach into my soul

And look around for something to throw
For something that floats
For anything

Then I begin to toss them
In his direction
One by one

The flotsam and jetsam
Of a disappointed life
Tattered and battered
But alive still with hope

It’s all I’ve got
Hoping they might land

Close enough to touch him
Close enough to move him
Close enough he can reach them

Close enough to hold on

Haiku #8: Tyrant’s Masquerade

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 5, 2009 by 1writegirl

What is Fear but the
Great pretender, thief of dreams
Dressed as salvation

What is Fear but the
Leech bleeding dry the soul of
Its quest for a mate

What is Fear but the
Builder of prisons for hearts
Convicted of love

My Fur Coat

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , on December 15, 2008 by 1writegirl

I love you so differently than I have ever loved before, I confess to him. I am thinking, I want to give and give and give to you. It’s because this is the first time you are really loved back, he says.

I think of the other relationships I’ve been in, of Ken and Jake and Tom and Ben, and I wonder about each man in turn, and his level of devotion. Joe loved me, I am sure of it, however briefly, in a desperate, all or nothing kind of way, that went, not surprisingly, from all to nothing almost overnight. Ken probably didn’t, but that was my doing; I never gave him the chance, sabotaging any possibility of real intimacy from the beginning, in the way a very young and fearful girl will do in the face of doubt she could stay with any one person, when life is secretly beckoning her to run like the wind and not look back. Tom never loved me and frankly I didn’t care anymore at some point; I gave up wanting his affection and in doing so gave up the act of loving him as well. By that time I had a child to care for, a son to exchange love with in a forever, unconditional sort of way that prior to his birth was the stuff of fairy tales; now, understood without reservation or fear.

And Ben? I loved Ben a great deal, and in spite of the fact that he withheld his love from me in the steely way a miser will guard his stash of gold, I convinced myself that he really did love me. I could feel it, in spite of his desire to keep it confined, invisible, and unspoken. Whether it was his, or my own feelings reflected back onto me with the force of sunlight in a rearview mirror at sunset, I can’t say. I allowed it to blind me for four years until he told me he didn’t want me anymore and then the question of love or don’t love became a moot point.

Now, this new man – this wonder who has swept into my life with the force of a tornado and shaken my very foundations – is offering me the chance to love and be loved with all the redemptive powers of a presidential pardon or a Catholic confession: freedom to be accepted in all my torn humanness with everything showing that has come before, yet none of it mattering.

He is not an optimist, a glass half-full kind of man. On the contrary, he finds very little in life to wonder at, marvel over, or worship. The dark side of human nature is the bane of his existence, the weight of it great enough to usurp what is beautiful and eclipse what is light. It is not a resistance to joy that he sports, though it may seem that way at times, but a continual struggle to keep his head above the ugliness. What remains at the end of the day is not so much acceptance as it is tolerance. Once in a great while something moves him and he lets go, he gives everything while expecting nothing, yet wanting just enough to stave off what torments him a while longer.

How I chanced to wander into his path is a mystery, and how I could possibly be enough, I may never know. He wears his passion for me like a favorite old t-shirt, as if it’s the most natural and comfortable fit he has ever found. I wear it like a silk lined sable coat, reveling in its protective warmth, amazed by its softness, determined to keep it clean, supple and free of stain. Bewildered by the fact that something so beautiful is touching me, each time, as if for the very first time, and suffused with the desire to remain enough.

Bemoaning the ends

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on November 19, 2008 by 1writegirl

 

She undergoes in the name of love endless insult,

everything a means to an end,

comprised of acts against nature involving

 

hot wax

razors

foul smelling creams

food deprivation

scissors

tweezers

bar-bells

treadmills

abortions

a high priced psychoanalyst

eye liner

carrot juice

and the observation and feigned enjoyment of such pastimes

  as football, tv, and Nascar

… to name a few.

 

Please him, please him, please him,

she has been taught since infancy.

Never did anyone suggest please yourself.

She spends a good deal of her time

looking in the mirror and weeping.

In the end, it always ends.

 

She wanders from place to place,

repeating the cycle,

through the good years,

the years of her youth,

the years she can never get back.

Bemoaning the ends.

 

Till one day, something snaps, something changes,

and now she chooses which acts of nature

she will violate and why,

and there is no him to please anymore;

they have stopped lining up at her door

 or she has told them all to leave,

she doesn’t know which.

 

It is quieter now,

she is more focused,

and she doesn’t feel guilty nearly as much,

though she still spends a good deal of her time

looking in the mirror and weeping.

Bemoaning the ends.

 

It is not that she has given up on love.

It is that she has a different understanding

of what the word means than she used to.

 

Then one day she meets someone she thinks

maybe she could love someday,

the right way,

the way love was intended.

 

She admires this man,

she respects the way he faces his demons,

and in his presence,

she feels lighthearted and joyous

in a way she has not for years.

 

He says he wants to be her friend,

and he cries when he confesses

he cannot give her more.

 

She looks in the mirror and weeps.

Not from sadness; after all, she can give no more in return.

Not from happiness; where was he twenty years ago?

Not even from habit.

 

She weeps because his hesitations are her own,

his fears, as fresh and raw as hers,

His reasons as old and familiar as the skies.

 

She realizes he may find it easier

to walk away than to walk toward,

and she will end up, once more,

 

Bemoaning the ends.

 

 

November 17th, 2008

Posted in Meanderings with tags , , , , on November 17, 2008 by 1writegirl

 

My inbox remains empty. My phone is silent.

I cannot will you into these places,

though god knows I’ve been trying.

 

I am certain of very little in this world.

 

So I try to be honest with myself and others

hoping at least for a connection now and again,

however tenuous, however frayed and timid.

 

We all need someone to call our own.

 

We accomplish weeks of therapy in mere minutes together,

you and I. You have undone knots, months in the making,

without ever even touching me.

 

I imagine what miracles your hands might enact.

 

I might become a child again were we to have a month.

Who knows what years would do…return me to a state

of eager, hopeful, uninhibited innocence?

 

I like to think I might have given you something in return;

that I might continue to give.

 

Yet a kiss on the cheek does not a suitor make.

 

And fear is not exclusively my domain.

 

 

In Her Dreams

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , on November 17, 2008 by 1writegirl

 

In her dreams she drives across

the desert in a fast car

at night

 

With the top down, no seatbelt, and no fear.

 

In her dreams the sky is dressed

in deepest black velvet

studded with glittering diamonds

and a sash of pale, creamy satin.

 

The road beneath her tires

stretches on and on,

empty and endless

 

Her destination: exhilaration and speed itself.

 

In her dreams she meets a man,

an old flame who used to

put her down

 

Who reduced her psychological stature

in slow but steady increments

 

He says, ‘I want you back.’

 

She says, ‘In your dreams’

then her foot hits the accelerator

as she races away.