Trauma

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poetry: what’s that sound {again}

maybe it was chimes i heard or someone playing
a glockenspiel. it made me jump. like it always 
does. it could be the man coming down 
my apartment hallway holding a gun. no, 
that was a nightmare. it was a knife at my throat
and i was at work. he told me he was jesus.
i am okay now. it was long ago. but i jump, 
again, because what is that sound? it could 
be the circus i saw out the car window. remember 
when the performers fell? all that blood. no, 
that was a nightmare, too. it was my son 
being hit by a car. the police knocking.
his face was the blood i saw. his hands. 
but what is this sound? wind chimes? 
neighbor’s music? my son’s tv? i walk 
around the house and light candles
because you never can tell
what’s that sound.

Continue reading →
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Poetry: Inside the House

through multi-colored glass
down simple carpet floors
white walls turn brass
tears transform into doors

shadow trees grow there
lightening flowers do too
whispers come for repair
howling monsters to spew

creaking boards hold ache
light bulbs illuminate pain
rafters rattle and shake
trauma flows like rain

lose yourself, my child
within safe caring walls
connect with inner wild
listen to phoenix’s calls

for inside healing house
nothing stays for long
come in quiet mouse
leave brave lion strong

*This poem was inspired by a comment left on my blog by Grounded African and is dedicated to everyone attempting to enter a building like this to heal and connect in therapy, especially my darling daughter. May you find your way through the dark.

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Poetry: Roots

*trigger warning: mentions self harm

Cover her new scars
with your hand. Softly
remind her of monkey 
bars—how she magically

turned fear into calloused 
palms. It all seemed
simple then, tending those 
wounds. Band-aids, hugs, mommy

kisses. But you can’t 
help the same way—
palms have grown. Stars
have shifted. Instead, tell

her about rooted madness—
about pulling yourself free 
from ancient bloody soil
with trembling fingers. How

hope once flowed away
from you as fast
as a river, but
you didn’t drown. You

survived. Give her crystal
pools of fresh moon 
water, whirling seed pod
wings. Give her permission

to root herself differently—
for her path doesn’t
have to resemble grandmother’s
or great-grandmother’s or

anyone. Kiss her wounds
still. Let her sink
deep into your safe
ground and fall into

your familiar warmth. Sing
honey songs—bumble bee
whispers, fairy wings. Believe
her. Touch her scars

with sacred knowing fingers—
remind her not all
scars are visible. Wrap
her in thick layers

so strong she can
stand in any soil—
firmly rooted. For when 
harsh cold winter winds

bring hoards of lying
fanged monsters to roar
and rage and tear—
she’ll hear your voice

reminding her of small
hands on monkey bars—
how she magically turned
fear into calloused palms.

  • My daughter gave me permission to share this very personal poem.
  • “Roots” is inspired by “Whipping” by K.D. Harryman
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Poetry: Candy in a Dish

I.

hot thighs, stomach rolls
sweaty armor, sweetly eaten
protect hard, hide soft

weary smiles, turn away
deep water, baggy clothes
dream free, life restored

II.

touched without my permission in hot
places where thumping music makes thighs 
jump and sway, alcohol-filled stomach
churns truth until it tumbles, rolls

shadowed memories turn into wispy sweaty
kisses pressed against tightly layered armor
shattering fragile identity, fat words sweetly
whispered with fragrant wolfy breath—eaten

tumbling out dirty doors, stars protect
while Mother Moon watches with hard
kind eyes, stealthily struggling to hide
tears under swelling flesh made soft

fistfuls of candy devoured in weary
attempt to lock in realistic smiles
while broken-hearted I pirouette turn
carefully from danger; take me away

keep marching through tunnels down deep
sacred places boogeymen can’t go; water
too filled with sugary goodies baggy
after baggy blooming like puffy clothes

shaking nightmare voices off, golden dreams
swirl unfocused almost saying I’m free;
running even-breathed penning new life 
while courageous sun promises hope restored

This poem is for others like me still processing old trauma and heartbreak anyway we can. May you find your way toward the healing sun. I hope to meet you there someday.

The format of this poem is one I did before, where each word in the first poem becomes the last line of each stanza in the second. Thank you for reading and supporting my poetry adventures.