Pulling Off The Flesh: Poetry for Troubled Souls

My hand hesitates to make contact with even ones I love. All of these pieces while built together, feel disjointed. My lips long for a long compassionate kiss, but my hand will freely push it away. My body while flaunted is self-conscious of how it will be judged. It is a vessel of unknown. Each touch is a switch that triggers a new or old memory. A personal home theater of years past, many showing reruns that had long been forgotten or simply waiting for the right time.

My home movies are nightmares that give understanding to my body's reactions. Unlike nightmares, I can not wake up and say it was just a dream. I have tried to rationalize with both my mind and body, but it yields to the past. They are a great puzzle that I am slowly piecing together. Can I see who I am becoming without finishing the puzzle? The pieces have slowly come together to create a gruesome picture of who I was.

The pieces cannot be reconfigured to change the ultimate image; my picture of my past will always be the same. These are my pieces but they are not my whole. My expressions do not necessarily show how I really feel and my eyes do not allow you to see the depths of my soul. I am not a prisoner of my mind or body. While a simple smell, touch or sight may trigger a memory I no longer allow my senses to control the me that I have become. I seek affection from the ones I love and now feel comfort in their embraces where before I felt shame and fear.

While all of these pieces built together may seem disjointed, they are the me I was always meant to be; the me I deserve to be. I am a collage of many pieces. Separately the picture alone has no meaning or significant worth, but together it forms a beautiful and distinct representation of something bigger and better than its original piece. It is an eclectic montage of who I am and all that I aspire to be.

I am the me I was meant to be. I was made shattered. A ruined soul now exists where a whole person once was. The body is soft and supple, able to absorb blows. Identities are fragile and difficult to repair. My self is destroyed. We work with available light to mend the fractured soul. Like plates, I am the product of human efforts. A captive, hostage of his vicious anger. The facade of his caring baby blue eyes now contorted with vicious cruelty. My once unbroken body now a mess of tangled hair, busted and bloody lips, fist and finger-shaped bruises.

My former fiery soul missing in action, his prisoner in this agonizing tango. Breath, hot enough to melt me. Fists mold my flesh into his putty, knife caressing my throat, prolonging the agony. His violent words, stab me, force me hostage, as the bombs explode around me and my life fades slowly before my eyes. His refusal to spare my death propels him, the tortures continue. I see his bed, the puddle of blood, as my final resting place. Though our battle rages in the darkness, when the sun begins to rise, the yellow rays bring promise of life.

In conceding to his war tortures, a treaty is forged. He gently kisses my cheek and whispers this tug-of-war is our little secret. Big, brown, bottomless eyes in the mirror. Mine and never again mine. Any reprieve from this brutality, his inexhaustible hatred. My impotent blows no match for his rigid steel frame. My rapid breath escapes my body, taking with it my simple life. But I need it back. Bloodied and broken she rises Hands clenched, her face pointed up toward the sky; Tears sting her eyes but she wills them away, Resolving once more he will not see her cry.

She looks in the eyes of her children, Knowing her pain has become part of them, With soft words to offer them comfort, She gives of herself as she's dying within. Swiftly she puts things in order, Washes the blood and gets on with her day.

Survivors' Poetry | Vera House

At least this time not much has been broken, A small piece of her soul is all she throws away. But each time is worse than the last time, And it's getting much harder to mask how she feels; Some make-up will fix up the outside, But inside it seems like the wound never heals. I promise you that she is frightened. I swear to you she never asked for this pain. Sometimes when you get dragged down too far, It just gets so hard to get back up again. Let us show her the kindness of strangers; As strangers so often turn out to be friends, Then, as friends we can guide her to freedom; And rejoice in the person she becomes — when the pain finally ends.

Trying to be their shining daughter I polished and lifted saddles Shoveled out stalls, carried water and feed Sponged and wrapped bruised flesh Brushed my bay gelding to a sheen. Handsomely costumed and schooled, my brothers Bridled massive steeds through their paces Presenting the judges sleek performances That masked the boys who taunted Disrupting my sleep like cobbles in the bed. Shelves of silver cups Belie cold black hours spent Stowed under the eaves of our farmhouse attic Bound by brothers who Threatened worse if I revealed my terror.

Ignoring walls covered with prize ribbons Mother mended breeches Father just raised the bar as I Rode through fields of indifference with a Wound which has not bled. You creep into my most private moments and I'm not sure I could lose you in a crowd if I tried. I'm helpless to the hurt you've caused me and the one I love, as helpless as I am when you appear in my nightmares. I touch the broad leaves of the blue hosta, inviting her to come with me, explaining that she needs to escape.

Fennel, fragile and lush, clings to the fence. Hyacinth bulbs hide under dirt. In an empty pot, I find a snakeskin, coiled and glistening. I memorize the contrast of bright and dark, the rich clumping of flower and leaf. I want to hold this garden safe inside of me. We dig every hosta, scoop loose earth to cover roots, pile plants into plastic bags. We work fast to save as many as we can. We lift smooth stones that came from the bluffs of Lake Ontario, carried home on picnic days before the marriage began to taste bitter.

Sweat blesses our necks, our breasts, our silence. We pull plants from the earth, one by one. In the attic I hide, Fearing the rage that keeps banging on the door, Knowing that outside the storm gathers its strength. Sweat mingles with tears. I taste the dust in the air as it falls upon me. My face now covered with darkened streaks of fear. There is no shelter to slip away to. With reddened face and glaring eyes you pace before your prey.

I must face your wrath. She arises within me to open the door. You greet her with your fists of power hitting, slapping, kicking, And choking your punishment upon her. There now on the floor, curled up in a ball, Lies the little girl lost within my soul, Bruised, broken and shattered. Back and forth Choking Heels dug in This tug of war Denies me Fear pulls my breath As the fur of his chest I so long to tangle fingers in Comes on me This isn't how it's supposed to be Choking. Ropes of back and forth Choking Wrap around me I'm down.

I'm going to do well, I'll definitely succeed. Doesn't bother me now what life wants to throw at me. I'm going to tackle it, no matter how hard it'll be.

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3. SONG OF MYSELF. ( Leaves of Grass ()) - The Walt Whitman Archive.
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I know deep down inside somewhere, is a strength I've yet to find. I have the strength to continue along this stubborn path. No bitterness will deter me, no spitefulness will be heard. My spirit hovered in dark corners, watched vigilantly for signs of attack. Once so innocent, so young Deprived of the memories you shared with your friends They stood, hands on their Billy clubs, watching, while he kicked her in the face and stomach, kicked until her teeth broke and her lips bled.

They stood and watched and said nothing. Then turned and left. Before that, they had spoken. She still thought of herself as a girl, as a child. What else could she say. And they stood, their eyes wide and dark and somehow wounded. As if it was they who were being beaten, as if it were their baby who might die from those kicks. She was fast, but he was faster, her head shrinking, doorways refusing to open, no refuge anywhere.

Not even women's rest rooms a haven any longer. She remembers the knife he held over her while women in the next stalls trembled, the length of the thick blade, the way the thin light caught on the edge and brightened there. She remembers thorn bushes, where she crawled shredding her skin to escape him. His arms stretched through the city, ballooning with fists to find her. Feet with black wings.

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Someone always pointed the way. And he just kept coming. She was afraid to come home from work.

Afraid as she walked from the bus, her steps slowing. Afraid to open the door and go inside. The air in the house congealed, stiffened and trapped her. It was full of thunder, lightning, dense with crackling anger and rage. She never knew how to reflect it. She tried to be nice, she tried to be good, but she couldn't be good enough. Niceness, he said, was a crime or plot.

And it was her fault. If the basketball team lost or if his boss wanted him to go in early or if his dog messed the floor.

That dog mess was always her fault, even if she was at work and he was home. She made him angry by simply existing, by breathing his air. At the shelter, they spoke of red flags. Of calling for help. But when he took her back, everything he said and did was red, and he ripped the phone from the wall. A leaf floating down, The only fall color falling in a green canopy My first awareness of healing I marked it, the rhythm of nature As a moment in time.

A seagull, keeping pace with me on the ferry - Soaring, lifted by the wind - Not struggling to keep up, effortlessly gliding Trusting me enough to take a cookie from my fingers. I marked it, this silent dialogue with nature As a moment in time. I've been able to notice the stars, To obsess about the color of my hair, To laugh with women I admire and adore. Every wrinkle, every convolution in this angry skin has a tale to tell and is ready to confess. My heart knows its betrayals, my womb remembers invasions, my tongue holds many stories. I need to be so careful when I walk out the door the wrong look could upset him all the more.

I really loved you - cared for you, too. Why did you do it all over again? I know I was a fool to be blinded by love - the mask which covered the beast inside. When you swore that you wouldn't you know that you did. How much more of this pain must I keep taking before I find what I must gain? You say you're sorry - why should I believe?

How many beatings and lies before I should leave? All the bruises and pain that I hid - that was back then - I was only a kid. You've made me see you for all that you are. I know I'm better and I can go far. Don't bother shouting - I'm on my way and how! You won't stop me - I'm too strong for that now.

I want to be free from all my misery. I've got to move fast, to escape from my past. If all of you know of the life I have led then you too can follow, and leave him in bed. He sent her home. He took all my clothes off, very thorough. I tried to do my robot screams but he held his hand over my mouth whether for cruelty or quiet. He did it businesslike, a transaction. He left the door open while I dressed, I could see the party down the hall. Then came the vomiting beige as that housing development, and as copious.

Threw up on the bed and the floor in the bedroom of snaggle-tooth Jim. They were all hitting me, the whole party scolding voices, hitting me with something hard. I screamed that I was sorry and to please stop. They were calling me the same names my father called me the ones he calls all women in his stand-up jokes. When the police came one of the faceless took me into the bathroom to wipe the blood from my forehead, though it had permanently splattered my shirt.

The fingers around these stems felt innocent. I saw myself from the point of view of passing cars: The lexicon of filthy names I would probably always be called, or so it seemed. Walking along the shoulder just a sixteen year old girl still good enough to pick flowers wise enough to keep walking the interstate only a few miles away the evening getting cooler. Take back the lives we naively gave to those who would use, and abuse ones they profess to love. Keep the promises we long ago made to ourselves. Take back the wombs, empty from birthing babies who now bear their own seed.

Fill the void with joy's glowing desires. Take back the arms that cradled cries, the hands that wiped tears. Fill them with supple earth. Pound the yielding clay into power's form. This was first published on January 21, in one of my earlier blogs, Cultivate and Harvest , at http: Without knowing why or understanding any reason Once a sun came alive. A star awoke into consciousness, Self-awareness blessed with intelligence.

Restless, the star sought to break free of its orbit Around the galaxy And wander throughout the vastness of space. After much deliberation, This star determined it could channel its fiery energies Into massive jets of blazing plasma and scorching radiation And compel its body to travel across the Cosmos. Thus you now have a choice. You can choose to spend your life going around the galaxy With planets and their moons going around you, Blessing many with your wondrous light, And live for a very long time Allowing living beings to flourish in your light.

And your life will be short. And you will destroy much along your way. Imagine a solar system teeming with life All its worlds in harmony with one another, And a new sun comes wandering in all curious? God paused and waited. The star churned as it deliberated. Many ages went by as this star roamed the Universe Destroying all in its approach as well as in its wake. It was more alone than ever As it attempted to explore star system after star system Teeming with life and even civilizations. Some of these even tried to attack the star But to no avail. Others prayed for the star to go away, Again to no avail.

And the wandering star grew lonelier still, Becoming envious of solar systems Where celestial harmony reigned, Where suns were even worshipped, Where life grew verdant, And in some rare cases entire solar systems Reached a level of self-aware interdependence. And the wandering star felt even more alone. This sun churned as if turning inside out, then Blossomed into an almost-empty red giant Of a monster, a planet-devouring colossus. Feeble attempts to move spun into nothingness.

The star felt itself losing consciousness. Whirled apart in last burst of struggle The star blew apart in one final explosion of light Seen many billions of light years away. Lifeless the remnants collapsed Deep into the center of the void, A black hole sucking in all existence, Crushing everything into nothingness, The mystery of obliteration All that remains. Light arose from the depths of Darkness And eventually Light falls back into Darkness. Both are richer than before.

As it is with life and death If only all could see. This was first published in late January on one of my older blogs, Cultivate and Harvest , at http: Then revised and reposted here toward the end of March Oh, I swim amid their pressed loins As a dolphin leaps into air From warm waters dripping silk. Adult admonishing reviles juvenile curiosity Forgetting to hear among the scattering of scat Giggles of the Divine. William Dudley Bass Thursday 21 January after a week of pondering.

This was first published in early on my earlier blog, Cultivate and Harvest , at http: As refreshing as a cup of cool water Pulled up deep from the well In the afternoon of a hot, sleepy day God lives inside my Mind Or so my Mind likes to think. In truth God lives deep inside my Heart And sails the mind everywhere As a ship sails the ocean For Mind is everywhere an ocean unto itself.

With Mind anything is possible If so believed. When my ego turns inward And I lift my eyes to See the sun rise upon the cusp of dawn I look inward across the infinite seas of Mind And feel God pounding in my heart Pounding as the greatest most fierce Most kind lover I have ever known. This poem was first published in one of my earlier blogs, Cultivate and Harvest , on Thursday 21 January , at http: Eventually I revised this poem and reposted it here on my new website this late March of It was first published on my earlier blog, Cultivate and Harvest , on Monday 9 November , at http: Later it was revised and re-published here this March Deep into Abyss We plunge Beneath shadows of angel wings Dark as midnight mountains.

I originally posted it on her birthday in on my older blog, Cultivate and Harvest , at: They are, I would imagine, for the majority of human beings around the world. My writings on these topics took place over time and have evolved into the narrative contained within the following series of essays, ruminations, photographs, and poems. Death is an everyday aspect of life, and yet in our culture perhaps the least visited, the least discussed, the most disturbing, the most feared, and the most liberating. Bereft of a cultural web of community grief and loss, we nowadays hurry the dying out of view and the dead into the ground or into an urn or whatever just so we can get back to what we really have reduced our lives to: In the process of freeing ourselves up to be so busy we have unwittingly robbed ourselves of something intimate, indeed of something which can be a rich affirmation of life and purpose.

Each is fully self-contained, although they do flow one to the other. Some are long, while others are short. I list them below in the chronology of which I published them on my website, William Dudley Bass on Earth at the Brink , although as with blogs they show up in reverse order with the last one posted at the top. I shovel snow beneath cold stars Moon shadows fall between tall trees I dig my path to the tallest tree. Breath hangs frozen in air Amid clusters of evergreen branches Where I walk past cold trees.

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Western red squirrel poises Halfway up a ponderosa pine And barks as I carry firewood. Yesterday two pickup trucks filled with snow Race ahead thru lowland rain Bemused I watch them go. Sun burns cold across winter skies Settles down behind yonder ridge As I gather up another armload of firewood. Deep in dark woods Next to one silent cabin A giant crucifix twinkles red with Holiday lights. Gorgeous woman one year away from forty Sinks silently into our hot tub Naked her eyes behold me. She emerges from the hot tub Slips on her bathrobe backwards as snowflakes fall Tiptoes to the railing, bends over and wiggles.

Together we join with the darkness The lights within become one We slip in the snow and laugh. First crafted between late November and early March , they were originally published on my earlier website, Cultivate and Harvest , on November 19, , at http: Then I revised and republished them here this March Rain drops crater my mind.

Free of clay and gravity I see the Moon from Space and realize I am already dead. On the mirror side of Life my memories live until forgotten. Surrender to the flow of all that is tender…and sweet. Five seconds before my conception Death rides me With a wild laugh. I awake raw and open From cannibal dreams. I feel my heart beat… …still inside my chest. My heart opens behind closed ribs A searing bright chakra sun Opens as a giant hand And grabs me from the inside out.

Shakes me apart, My beating blood hot heart. I want more I want me, all of me. I am I My self. Ego dies in life Self dissolves with Death Nothing left Not even deatharoni and cheese. It was first published on my earliest website, the one created for homework for that Practicum, my blog Cultivate and Harvest , on Wednesday, November , at http: Eventually I chose to revise and republish it here on my new website this January of This was originally handwritten for the Counseling Practicum as we wrestled with the moral dilemma of how to respond to someone who refused to participate in violation of his or her commitment to participate.

It was first published on my earlier website created as homework for that same Practicum, my blog Cultivate and Harvest , on Wednesday, November 19, , at http: Security Security Security For: Terror Drugs Guns International Pornography…. In the news today, THIS really happened , folks! This was first published on my earlier website, Cultivate and Harvest , on Wednesday 19 November , at http: A rough, found poem, sort of….

Who blame all the rest of us for your own blasphemies,. The Fundamentalists of every religion are the most Satanic. The Devils they see among all the rest of us are Real. They fail to see their projections as their own reflections. This was first published in my earlier blog Cultivate and Harvest , on Wednesday 18 November at http: A poem found amid ruins of faces which once knew love. Over hot coffee I study faces From almost a hundred years ago Torn apart in the First World War Which was neither the first nor the last But one of the most horrific.

Red mud pours out my ass And cements me to Earth. Extreme high number of injuries above the chest in the trenches marked the Great War of Art blossomed by men deranged And rearranged Driven Striven to Paint and write madness to liberate them selves from horror. Masks by a corps of artists covered mangled faces Rescued from battlefield carnage. My mind makes a collage of masks and faceless faces From this Smithsonian magazine article.

My Mother would have loved it, So curious was she for all things true and weird. Over an image of my own face Black coffee splashes The color of war. Amid the horrors of World War I, a corps of artists brought hope to soldiers disfigured in the trenches. Written in , edited and first published in my earlier blog Cultivate and Harvest on 18 November at http: Then edited and re-published here this 4 March My dog sits at my feet As my beloved sleeps down the hall in the bed.

The old chair is cozy and warm. No wonder my dad used to sleep in it. I sit and stare out the window At spring snow melting away, At ponderosa pines, white birches, Cottonwoods and old stumps. Blue emptiness fills mountain skies Out here in the Washington Cascades. It would be an alien landscape to my father, Who died three years and over three months ago. My brother was spooked by the chair; Thought it haunted, kind of, and asked me to take it.

Said it smelled too much of Dad. That chair traveled over three thousand miles From an old farmhouse in Virginia To a new western lodge in Washington, From the Sandy River to the Wenatchee. Once or twice I thought I sensed my dad back in his chair, Just left-over energy, an echo of a cherished memory. My father moved on after Mom joined him beyond Death. My ego battles with the Divine Not owning its divinity. I pray, meditate, contemplate the future. And as I gaze out the window I miss my Dad. Originally published on my old website Cultivate and Harvest , on Thursday 13 November at http: True North said… Ahhh William, thank you…I have just come home from working downtown today, hung up my suit, brewed a coffee and opened your blog…my heart shrugs off the dense energy of cement and iron, unmanacles and expands into the depth and vision of your words…ahh, now I will read on…Cindy.

To touch the timeless through your eyes and breath. And a lovely feeling of anticipation as I choose to read only one entry on any given day, knowing that each time I visit here your voice will awaken something in me that will take me who knows where… Wendy. This was originally published in my oldest blog, Cultivate and Harvest , on Tuesday 16 January , at http: Birth at the End of the World.

She was my Lover; Only last week we rode each other hard like wolves. Now we hide then run, And stumble pass corpses roasted Still holding guns. She pushed apart thorns As I battle briars; We bend between old, rusty, barbed wire Into a forest clearing edged with boxwoods Overgrown, shabby, and still magnificent. To our surprise tombstones totter among moss and ivy With names and dates worn down from the s: April 13, , d. February 15, of Childbirth Fever. Suns flash in the nearby distance, Heat and flames pulse over us and roll the dead Into the waters of a beaver pond swamp Edged by drowned forest, lifeless birds, and waters rising With dead, blistered fish.

Or are we already in Hell? Apocalypse in February on the Edge of Swamps. Genesis plays out over and over again As Earth reforms every few millennia or so. But not fast enough to learn We are the Ones Who must first master the Power of loving and forgiving Ourselves And share compassion and wise stewardship of Home.

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Thirsty, we stoop to drink. It is now Public Domain. All of the other pictures are photographs by me and as such remain Copyrighted by me as the Author. The first three are versions from a dayhike into the beaver pond swamps of Sandy River, Virginia in the early s. The latter two are from around Seattle, Washington in early Then it was edited, expanded into a photo-poem, and re-published here. I sit and meditate. I sit on a cushion and feel my own breath alive in me and outside of me.

Complete but never done, I rise to sing, and dance, and rock my pelvis at nothing in particular, just to loosen up my hips. Feeling foolish, Feeling good, A hirsute man in my early 50s. Why, I am not even old yet.

Survivors' Poetry

I could live another 50 years, or drop dead before I finish this sentence. As I sit so alone and so naked and half-aroused, dreaming of mounting vibrant, exciting women who dare look me deep in the eyes to see if they trust my soul, I realize God is watching me. That He watches from above and from within as Goddess watches from below and all around. She slithers up inside to me to embrace God.

I feel a quiet explosion of Love and Power expanding from that unity of Spirit and communion of all Souls. All eyes are upon me naked, even if many are closed. Everyone sees me, and in looking out together I see myself. Everyone sees me as we see you.

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Yeah, I have one. I have a body. Rip off all my clothes. Standing in wet emptiness a hot flash of darkness renders naked all creation. Carve gullies down my chest and belly. Tears burn open holes in my flesh and fill my heart as wine. The more I cry the clearer I see. I cry so hard my head breaks open round my tears. Salty wine pours down my insides and out. My legs rust apart like iron and break upon my feet like clay. All dissolve into the sea. I topple into sand beyond the furthest stranglehold of my own hands. Ozymandias dead and unremembered even after the winds long blow away the sands.

There is nothing but this present moment, nothing beyond death but words. Nothing explodes into everything becoming anything. Power flows and love churns reborn. Flowers crack open concrete as massive stars destroy whole galaxies. In the Bang of Big of Everything every tiny quantum particle wave bursts into a genesis of evolution from which arises after 14 Billion years the capacity to forgive and feel compassion, to feel empathy and love, to embrace paradox with and not or, to transcend the horror we visit upon one another, to open up and cry, and to love, and to love with power, and be love in the power.

I am my Word. I love, honor, and respect myself. I am here, right here now. I have a history. I am not my history. Nor my stories or identities. I am not my own beliefs, views, or interpretations. I have my beliefs, views, or interpretations I give meaning to, Of course, But I am not any of those…things. I am here, right here now, And I am alive.