What almost every writer has researched
- wilderness survival skills
- Cultures around the world
- sicknesses
- how much of something the human body can take before dying
- synonyms for literally any word
- descriptive words
- the phycological impact of situations
- names
- words to use instead of ‘said’
- what was popular each decade or era
- clothing trends
- things about animals
- legends and myths
- ways to kill things and how to dispose of bodies
- rhyming words
Comment more that I missed. Am I wrong?
Throwaway Soldier
Joseph curled up on the damp sidewalk, shielding his head with his arms to avoid the bombs raining down on him. “It hurts my head! The noise is going to crack my head in two pieces. My arm is gone! I can’t find my buddy! Oh there he is, what is left of him, shattered into pieces! It is my fault! I should have saved him.”
“You didn’t help your friend,” the voice said. “You can’t be forgiven. I am watching you. Listen to what I say. Everyone is against you and you will be punished. Drown your pain. Have a drink and take drugs until you have no feelings at all. It will feel a lot better - I promise.”
“Am I still there?” the homeless man pleads. “Am I still in Iraq? Is this all in my mind? I want to be left alone to wallow in my sorrow. I have no money and have no one to help me.” He was having a temporary lucid moment but soon would be back in the land of paranoia and schizophrenia.
Joseph was thirty years old and had spent the better part of the last six years on the mean streets of New York. He agonized, not realizing that he was suffering from mental illness. Sleeping on little pieces of cardboard and urinating on the sidewalks was a hellish practicality. He was terrified to seek out a homeless shelter seeking the freedom of no walls. He was also terrified of the people that frequented these places. With the flip of his imagination, they could become marauding soldiers out to kill him.
Joseph picked one of the festering scabs on his leg and imagined he saw little maggots sawing on his body. His hair was filthy and crawling with lice. The movement of these creatures drove him to distraction as he remembered the moldy, vermin laden food which he was forced to eat when his supplies ran out. He was positive that they still were eating through his insides.
The psychiatric facility that he had checked into once medicated him so thoroughly that he was in a drug induced haze. He felt he had lost himself for four days before he left the shelter, full of mistrust and fear that he was becoming nothing at all.
When it was cold, Joseph rode the subways or slept over warm grates. Sometimes he found shelter in the train and bus stations until he was rousted from his sleeping place. He was shivering and lonely and all alone. When his disability check stretched far enough, he drugged and drank himself silly, causing his cognitive abilities to become impaired. Under the influence, he became vulnerable on the streets to predators who stole what little possessions he had. He was not aware that he had post traumatic stress syndrome and also a brain injury, contributing to serious mental illness and substance abuse problems.
Desolation rolled in on threatening waves, adding to the drug use which threatened to obliterate him. He felt abjectly hopeless and alone. Oblivious to anyone else in his periphery, Joseph lined up his bags of clothing and items he had picked up on the street and laid his head on the dirty objects. “I’m not homeless. I’m waiting for my friend to wake up. He’s not really dead. He’s somewhere else and I will find him.”
It’s sad to say, but Joseph was one of the forgotten ones. His untreated condition was debilitating without the right medication and counseling. He was angry but didn’t realize the cause for his fury. He rationalized that his identification had been stolen by federal agents and that they were watching his every move. Tragically, he was beginning to feel a sense of satisfaction as he moved daily around the city, trying to avoid the stares of strangers.
Joseph had been so mentally beaten down that he could trust no one. Any encounters he had had with his family or former friends had been critical, judgmental and humiliating. He began to avoid intimate relationships and couldn’t establish a rapport with anyone in order to obtain the psychological help he needed. The trauma he had encountered had encouraged his homelessness which removed his ability to cope.
In spite of his hardships, Joseph remained remarkably resilient and even creative as he developed survival skills so he could function in a reduced capacity in his little world. Although he was ignored, he continued to attempt to express himself and shared his unorthodox views aggressively and assertively to all passersby who did their best to avoid him.
“If I don’t look at him, he doesn’t exist,” people told themselves. “He’s crazy and dirty and doesn’t belong in my universe.”
Since Joseph realized that they all thought he was insane, he acted even more irrational for dramatic effect. He would make snatching motions at their clothing, frightening them even more. Once in a while, a stranger would throw a few coins over his shoulder, without glancing in his direction.
Joseph’s psychological wounds were so deep that tears would roll down his cheeks in dirty little lines. He knew his actions were perceived to be strange and he heard voices that were not obvious to others. He felt someone was trying to harm him so kept his countenance angry and cross in order to frighten his ghosts away. His hands shook as he wiped the drool from his mouth. He felt rejected and mocked by others.
After all the flags, bands and parades, where is the Veterans Administration?
Will no one help this throwaway soldier? Is Joseph destined to remain a forgotten statistic?
I Almost Never Was
A tiny head bursting forth.
A loud cry held in for months.
Tiny lungs breathing. Tiny eyes squinting.
A mother's pain subsiding at the joy of holding such a babe.
And, to think, I almost never was.
A woman travailing in unknown ailment.
A doctor providing medicine that shouldn't be.
At the discovery of why, it appeared too late.
The words slid from his lips; "Abort it."
So, you see, I almost never was.
A persistent new mother and father saying: "No."
A couple embracing the idea of parenthood.
An attorney advising to hope for the worst-
To have a valid case of malpractice.
Apparently, I almost never was.
A world plotting to kill an innocent life.
A basket of fruit uneaten.
A rollercoaster ride turned down.
Budding young love fighting to protect an even younger sprout.
A shame to think I almost never was.
But, at long last, a healthy girl.
Defying killers' endeavors since fetal state.
A miracle at first breath,
And still defying odds today.
And, to think, I almost never was.
Autumn’s Scarlet Sunset
Spring had awakened
before Dawn,
who was slow to slip above
her quilted spread,
having been kissed
by Winter’s spearmint lips
&
freezing temperatures
as she rested
on the cusp
of the earth’s equinox.
Like tip-toe steps
on chilled tile flooring,
she crept atop
the fertile hills
that were blanketed
with dewy grass
that stood, starched
by the bite
of the early hours,
before being warmed
in the orange-pekoe tea
poured from
Sun’s vernal carafe.
Regardless of the absence
of florid, watercolor fields
dowsing the blank canvas,
(stripped by
snow and ice
like turpentine),
the smallest of seeds
would soon blossom
with an indescribable
array of glory.
Though night
had slipped away,
quietly and without fanfare,
the unfurling colors
of sun’s morning stretch
caressed the umber hues
that had shaded
the Red Rock mountains
and flooded the canyons
below her
with glimmers of gold,
interlacing
the naked branches
of Oak and Sycamore trees
as they flanked
the riverbed between them.
Still,
day’s arrival
was cloaked in silence
equal to that
of night’s departure.
Sunrise,
given the power
to awaken life
(absent a voice
or beating heart)
scored the dust and ash
with her ethos
as a branding iron,
all without a sound,
while striking her wand
to beckon Spring’s
small beginnings,
(all that had been bound
within bud and blossom)
to play in unison,
one symphony,
The Orchestration of Life.
Summer was witness
to the blessing
of the former months
as long days
matured garden
and founts
for Fall’s bountiful blessings,
marked
by a pregnant
Harvest moon,
stalling in its ascent
so as to appear
lazily sleeping
atop beds of wheat fields
and bails of hay,
yet,
burning as a fiery flame
atop the wick
of a hurricane lamp,
fueled with oil,
as it consumed
the invisible ether
with its amber-hued appetite.
The lunar lambency
was a near likeness
to the setting Sun,
who,
being closed
beneath the casket
of cresting waves
to be laid to rest,
(buried in
horizon’s grave)
would soon
be smothered
like a candle
falling prey
to the brass snuffer.
It was in motherhood
that Autumn was born.
As her body
intuitively gave way
to the life of another,
she realized
her purpose
in that moment of time.
She was born.
For this.
The radiance
of her love and joy
was immeasurable
and
all the splendor
of nocturne
&
nature
could not compare
to the depths
of the attachment
felt
as she gazed at herself,
cradled,
in the yet to be tinted,
gibbous, onyx eyes
of her newborn babe.
An unmatched beauty
emanated
from the eternal bonds
of body and soul,
woven together,
marking the beginning
of a new season
&
coinciding
with the death
of another.
There,
nestled in her once barren arms,
she saw the tiny seed
of love;
a love so strong
that it would bear fruit
beyond her years
and in many ages
to come.
Instinctively,
enrobed in her new nature
and crowned
with gentle strength,
she quieted the cries
of her infant child
at the breast of sustenance
while dreaming
of the future days
that her daughter
would be stirred
by that same fiery passion;
one so powerful
that she could find
few words
worthy enough
for its description.
The warmth
of her bare skin,
vibrating
with the melody
of her fluttering heart
would suffice
to quell the shock
of her little one’s
translation
from the spiritual
to the temporal
in a ceremony of water
&
baptismal expression,
accompanied
with its angelic attendants,
as it also satisfied
her lack of words
to express
her newfound adoration.
Evening drew near
&
with one final breath,
the day exhaled
and the setting sun
perfused
the Prussian sky
with a scarlet blaze
while
one crimson embolus
extinguished, forever,
Autumn’s breath of life.
She was born
the day she died —
inhaling the scent
of her new-mother’s milk
on the breath
of her precious child
&
exhaling her spirit
to the heavens
for eternity
to shine upon
her offspring:
her moon
in its fullness
fed by
a Mother’s
never ending light.
Thus,
like the delicate balance
of creation
&
seasons,
their harmony
lives on,
day to night
&
night to day,
in the reflections
of rutilant sunsets
&
morning’s auroral ambience
mirrored in
Autumn’s ethereal ember —
an infinite,
endearing
love,
rising
beyond the shores
of time
and tides,
perpetually
&
with fortitude:
the marvel
of her maternal presence
displayed in
a celestial
manifestion
of kindred bodies,
bound,
in one accord
&
serenaded
by the immortal
Moonlight Sonata.
