PREFACE: My friend Mark Bisone sometimes calls me “poetess,” which I adore, and he did so recently. Being inspired — and wanting to live up to my title — I went into my computer and found a few poems that I typed and saved as text documents.
This poem is part of a collection called The Elements of Love that I wrote in 2004. All of the poems were based on earlier writings from my “Daily Pages,” a writing process I had started after reading and doing the exercises in The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. This particular poem came from writings during a very tumultuous time in my life, around 1997-98, shortly before my own much better artist’s way began making itself clear to me.
Poems like these give me hope for the future, because that was a dark emotional time for me. Life gave me lots of lemons back then, so I made Lemon Joy Dish Soap and washed A LOT of dishes. (That’s supposed to be a “clean” “joke,” haha. I know, I’m no comedian!)
But in truth, healing does require a cleansing period, and so I used my inner senses — those given to me by the Creator — to help guide me to and through the experiences that helped me to heal. The process included both uncovering my traumas and discovering the intentional trauma-based systems of the non-Natural, overlaid systems of world. And as I healed, my true self — the human being in alignment with Natural Law — was being revealed.
The process is still happening, as I heal from the inside out, sharpening my ability to re-cog-nize the false, multi-faceted, patterned overlays of the machinated world, and how these present in individual people and groups; in institutions and systems; in ideologies; and how they are proffered by the black-screen boxes.
And now, without further ado, here is the second poem of my book The Elements of Love called “Over/Not.”
OVER/NOT
Overwhelmed by thoughts
Overtones: pounding tunes
on a radio station I didn’t choose
and I can’t turn off
Words in tremolo waves
and sound forged
in staves of moonstruck steel
Every kiss, every crash
Every “I’m-not-coming-back”
is coming down again
a high-pitched rain
causing me to feel
wet cold hot desperate pain
But I haven’t felt for so long
So don’t tell me the sorrow is wrong
Sometimes in a song
Sometimes staring at the ceiling
or the moon all night long, I wonder:
Will I make it to tomorrow?
And will you be shivering
in all this mess?
Or playing a rich-fellow’s
game of chess?
Underwhelmed, not quivering
Not reeling, not blue
The world beneath you
just a black tar road
stinking in the August heat
slippery in December snow
Very nice and thought provoking. Some times those had times bring out the best in us.