It is time for bed, It is time for rest. Everything strives south, goes down, lets loose. We all have gone to seed Planting our hopes for next year into their prepared beds No more roses only the ripe hips now Now the feast from the harvest Now the felling, the falling, the cutting of expectation as we curl in tighter as we dig in deeper we hold tightly to ourselves in the wake of the coming winter we long to close our eyes as the sun sets ever lower in the sky
The leaves are so beautiful in all their different shades, shapes, and states of growth, release, or decay. Today I am thinking of the tree That held that life in its existence, nurtured it from before it was a small bud carried nutrients to it so that it could survive as it developed and grew now the tree sends a signal to each one still connected through that nourishing network to say, it is time, it is time to let go the tree, feels, the moment filled with fear or fascination as floating unfolds It is time It is time to let go
The long exhalation of winter descends on my bones. Leeching the life from my blood until I’m left as barren as the land.
The quiet hush of snow covered ground hides the impatient musings of my mind as I seek a way beyond the bland limitations of this body.
A fierce squall emerges from the darkness.
It feeds upon itself as it builds into a formidable wall of ice and protects the fragile being lost in the abyss
Snowflakes drift by, oblivious.
by Michelle Murray
Artist Statement
This poem was inspired by an in-class activity for the writing class, From Mundane To Miraculous with Maisha Manson. We were asked to write about a season that correlates to how we feel in the moment. At the time I was in a great deal of physical pain with the cooling weather. As a person living with chronic pain, winter is a difficult period. There are many parallels between winter and chronic pain and this poem is my way of merging the two in a way that expresses the difficulties and realities of both the season of winter and the seasons of pain. Yet despite the cold and barren starkness of winter, there is a certain beauty and strength hidden beneath the fallen snow. People who live with chronic pain also carry it with a quiet strength that is unseen by those passing in and out of our lives.
I am an Ambidextrous Painter, Scientist, Step-Mother, Lover of Lady’s & their Others. A Whore a Coward, Liar a Judas A Free-dome seeking Teacher of Our collective Futures Made to own Our GrandCestors spaces reinterpretation of Shape, Sound Frequency, re-speculating the birth of WE I am the Word & World created on a stage, page, tone or face Representing, & recreating a state of a Mind, for the race to BE Human. I am Preaching Precious Story’s Mirrors we’re constantly living up to reflecting on, Herstory’s. Infinite iNtelligence too deep to be Respected all to make rhyming come back like when the Last Poets just met When lazy Saturdays meant SMURPH’S Prince had not yet worn their bottomless pants I am UN-comforting white pages turned brilliant With beats on the backs of breakdowns An Ali of mental graphics Shakespeare of word gymnastics To art like butter to fat is No attempt, just doing I.t. ashe
Childhood… for some a gleeful, loving time. For others, endless trauma and despair.
Like childhood, a swing can be a reflection of pure joy, letting a child soar into the sky, believing they can sweep their hand through the fleecy, luminescent clouds. For some children, however, joy is overshadowed by anguish and pain. There is no lasting happiness, only the dark, dripping wet swing mimicking the suffering that marks their daily existence. The swing hangs still, a cold rain dripping despair onto the iron ground.
The joy has vanished like the child who, instead of transforming this scene into a gleeful moment, has been swallowed by the shadowy forest dominating the background.
CONTENT WARNING: This poem references domestic abuse, family trauma, suicide, and mental health, and may be triggering for some readers.
There’s so much about you that I’ll never know I inherited your bloodline and self-contempt Yet I have so little information on who you really were
I remember your gregarious moods, getting the rest of us to laugh uncontrollably I remember your jazz album collection, from Ella Fitzgerald to Buddy Rich I remember your immersion in wine culture, the small vineyard and air-conditioned cellar
But most of all I remember the terror, violence and humiliation You unleashed on your wife and two small daughters Time has given me perspective, but back then I despised you, hatred consuming the young body I inhabited
When Mom broke the news that your dead body had been found I cried tears for Mom, so in her sobbing, she wouldn’t feel alone But I was glad to see you go
Your memorial service embarrassed me, With your friends and colleagues gushing What a good man you were. I thanked them politely, thinking “If they only knew…”
1978, the year you gave up on life, was a long time ago And now my hazy memories feel incomplete There’s so much about you I’ll never know.
Written by Kristin
If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic abuse or suicidal ideation, please check out these resources:
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