Blog title: Poetry & Creative Writing. Pls Post Your Own
Blog description:Are you a person of deep and abiding passions? Do you have a need to find a way to let go of your most beautiful moments and those of the deepest desperation? Do you value writing, value other's writings, but are afraid to express yourself? Do not be. This is a place of freedom. Of innocense or not. What gets posted here can be lovely, passionate, silly, funny, or even dark because doing so can release you. Release your passion, let go of the past, and always--always, live in The Real.
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My blog address: http://MillionaireMatch.com/blog/DiCatLV
Somewhere there's a cocoon waiting where silence drips in slippery strands of deadly warmth waiting to hold me in silvery silences of the grave where I'll slip into a grey vacuum of white noise accumulated from the ashes of days burnt in places I don't want to be.
And some days I really wish I were already there.
But not today. And not tomorrow. And not until I've reached a different cocoon. The one that shields the elements wrapping me in sticky threads of tongued love < br />humming music into my soul strummed to life butterfly dancing.
Somewhere there's a cocoon waiting where silence drips in slippery strands of deadly warmth waiting to hold me in silvery silences of the grave where I'll slip into a grey vacuum of white noise accumulated from the ashes of days burnt in places I don't want to be.
And some days I really wish I were already there.
But not today. And not tomorrow. And not until I've reached a different cocoon. The one that shields the elements wrapping me in sticky threads of tongued love < br />humming music into my soul strummed to life butterfly dancing.
I remember one-inch heels and garter belts that twisted itchy stockings around the leg in shapes mother nature never intended.
I remember books about a first kiss that never described spin the bottle or post office.
I remember billy whatshisname who gave me a hicky (and I had wondered what all the fuss was about and hid it for days under turtlenecks from my mother).
I remember holding my first baby (you) and realizing that my body could create this Life (not quite sure how--sex education was NOT that great back then).
I remember twelve. I remember learning to smoke because EVERYONE at Lucy's slumber party could. Except me. (And I can almost remember eleven when I swore I would never become a nicotene fiend.)
I remember holding my first baby and realizing that my body could create this-- Only my body hadn't, my mother's had
The thought of my father doing THAT with my mother is wrapped in hazy painful memories of my mother wearing my father's shirt and his watch and crying and moaning and timing contractions to beat the band.
I was sure (at twelve) that although I really would love a child if I had one I would never let a boy do THAT to me, so I would probably never have any. (babies). but just be a dried up spinster teaching Sunday School to all the babies everyone else had.
So I held you, little sister. You were the first baby I ever had. And in many ways, the most special one.
So now I'm not twelve. You are thirty and I am much older. Here you are taller than me and so beautiful. Just like when you were first in my arms.
First baby. Brown eyes, blonde curls. Ten finger and toes and perfect. (Back when I believed that God is the only one who could create such perfection.)
Today, they ripped open your chest [again] Fifth or sixth time? Cancer eating your lungs (again) AND you never smoked.
You did many other things. Graduated William & Mary. Full scholarship. I was so proud of you. when you were twenty-four, (graduated late cause you had to work part of the way through).
Twenty-six. (Two years later) There you are on the op table. split open like a chicken about to be deboned.
One lung down {the tumor the size of a fist) But you NEVER smoked.
Four years later (two, or was it three? operations more--because you couldn't breath, right?) They only took ten percent of the remaining one. (lung)
This time, Virginny girl. (you). . . this time I wasn't there to hold your hand or sing the lullabies like I did when you were a baby. or shave your legs and wash your hair cause (as I said) 'Hey, those are some damn FINE looking interns 'round this h'eah hospital... and a gal with only one lung could sure USE a doctor for a hubby.'
You laughed and let me bathe you more patiently than you did as a baby.
I always made you laugh like no one else could, (you said). So much so, that the stitches, holding your chest and side together, hurt like bloody hell, (you complained).
If I could take the pain for this operation and recovery. I would I would, little one. without drugs or antibiotics. Split me open. Breathe for you. Big brown eyes. Baby girl. First baby I held in my arms. I love you. And I would take the pain if God would help you breathe again.
Where have they hidden the real, I've looked for it every where. Buried in concrete, is it hidden discreetly in the smell of urban sprawl and renewal?
I remember the fresh smells of summer, late evenings and fading sunlight, the laughter and yells of children catching lightening bugs, dancing the night.
The radiant smell of June roses smelling more when they bloomed only one month, the honeysuckle scent was so heavy it cut through the air like a knife.
So where have they hidden the real, is it gone or has it just been mislaid. Is it hidden away where I can't seem to go or is that I'm just afraid
To acknowledge that those days are over and there never will be a return to the way things were in childhood and that this is a lesson to learn
That there is no return to what's gone, only memories traced in the air of a path back through lands that time has forgot and the only real now is here.
This would have been more appropriate for Veterans' Day, but this is for the 4th of July and all those who defend our freedom.
The Price
Boxes of innocence – graves – lined up – row upon row upon row— white scepters arising out of the fields where once General Robert E. Lee looked over his plantation's summer harvests.
This is not the white innocence of cotton, clouded by sweat drawn from black mens' backs, who, broken into enslaved submission, worked to clothe a nation, to feed factories for England's fabric mills.
Nor are these white scepters of hope, crosses pushing up and out of the ground against a stark barren sky on a grey February afternoon on a cold snowy day where we have come to bury my father-in-law.
This is the whiteness of innocence: generations of the young laid to rest, side by side, war upon war, dividing up the lots of a once mighty plantation reduced to shielding the dead, whose acres – once fine green fields of waving tobacco and corn – now only harvest pain, fear, retribution, and love.
And this – this is the ultimate price of freedom.
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c. D K F Compton
Note: After the War Between the States, Robert E. Lee’s plantation Arlington, originally owned by his wife’s family, was seized by the U.S. Government and became Arlington Cemetery, where all soldiers who have served in war may be buried. The "Official" order establishing the cemetery was actually signed by the Secretary of War on June 15, 1864. William Henry Christman (1843-May 13, 1864), a Union soldier, was the first soldier buried in Arlington National Cemetery. He died in a Washington area hospital and was subsequently buried there. He lies in Section 27, which was originally The Lee Rose Garden.
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