Soon after I stopped blogging here, I just stopped blogging. Not only did I give up my blogs, but I gave up writing altogether as well as anything creative. Why, I can’t really say. Depression, lack of will, lack of time, boredom, lack of ideas, not giving a damn…
My dad died suddenly in November and I’ve been bombarded with so many emotions and writing has always been my way to cope, to express, etc. So now I find myself again searching for an outlet to share my pain, my grief, my guilt, even my happiness. As my dad always supported my creative endeavors and would be disappointed at my doing nothing. I started a new wordpress for this purpose, thinking that this one had been deleted. I can’t express how delighted and refreshed I feel reading through my old posts, rereading poems that I wrote so seemingly long ago.
For a while now, I’ve been a member of the secondlife virtual community. Recently I became involved with a group of artists in an online university setting, so to speak; like-minded individuals creating and sharing. This has also inspired me in many ways to get back into the arts. Something in my soul is crying out for my return to this world, and so here I am.
She kissed her mother’s head passionately until the smell of her hair filled her to her toes. In what had become an evening routine, she walked back down the narrow tiled hall, counting the steps it took her to arrive to her own room where she gracefully wrapped her black cloak around her slender frame. With a quick glance to the mirror, she tucked the few stray raven hairs beneath the satin fabric of her scarf and said a quick prayer before getting into bed. She took the folded paper from the table at her side and put it in her pocket, as she did night after night. It was a letter to her best friend, just in case.
Tonight was the night, my dear Salma, it began. They took my life, but not my dignity.
When morning came, the dust had just settled. As the area was cleared, there she was: the girl in the black cloak lying among the rocks and wreckage of her former home; her eyes wide open, but far, far away.
The Great Flood
Thunder tiptoes up my trembling spine,
intertwining vertebrae, slithering and serpentine,
entering the hollow of my throat.
It makes a great leap forward and manages to escape
through gaps in my clenched teeth,
filling the room with electric vibrato.
I vacillate on unsteady feet as it passes from me
and all of the hair on my body stands erect,
zigzagged, charged, quieting my intellect.
My brain ceases function, I’m at a junction
where my body and my breath join the great energy of the primal sound.
What pours from me in the stream of one long breath
is that which I absorbed through my pores,
and through the great tremor on the floor of the thundering blues.
It was the electrocution by the amplifier cord
that danced across the Muddy Waters and sent the flickering flames
deep into the heart of me, igniting the inner parts of me
with a fire that will refuse to die.
This is an emotional commotion, like a spiritual revival,
where there is no bible and no steeple,
but people quaking and people shaking,
arriving at the Crossroads and falling down on their knees
as the same fire joins the current of their blood.
There is a great flood and two by two the wave takes its victims,
jolting, jarring, and electrifying them,
bolting, sparring, offending and amending them;
it hits them like a runaway train, stun-gunning their brains,
severing the line with the Ball and Chain.
Acoustic feedback reverberates in our souls,
the sweet blues music just rolls and rolls.
We lay flat, dispatched in its path,
emaciated, satiated, and saturated by the great flood.