On Poetry, Power, and Nostalgia
It's in the bone-shattering roar of the sea serpent,
heard above the crashing waves and the tempest;
in the ancient lost temples, weathered pillars vined by luminescent fungi. It's in the weeping of an abused child, in the hard-set jaw of the tyrant; in between soft journal pages alongside pressed flowers and pictures of jeweled hummingbirds. It's entwined in all of the memories held dear, in everything precious and in everything lost. In the shadows, in the darkness, in the rage, in the grief. In the joy, in the daylight, in the freedom, in the peace. It's in these lines that are jotted down on the underside of an old school desk - easily forgotten yet also eternal, timeless, always ready to be remembered again.
White Spires
I see – listen to me, for I see much
but only speak once –
I see white spires of enlightened cities,
spiraling above life-bearing trees,
reaching up from abundant forests
into the clear skies.
The most important part
is that these sky-reaching towers
are not pristine, not timeless art.
There’s some dirt, some weathering,
small cracks here and there.
Spiderwebs and birds’ nests adorn them,
like they do everywhere.
Do you know why this matters in my vision?
Because it means it’s real.
This is reassurance that someday this world,
this planet, will be healed and in balance,
cared for by people wise and evolved.
People for whom our violent history
will be but a dim memory;
so ancient and unrelatable
as to be unimaginable.
Hard for the people of that future time
to believe.
They will shake their heads when they look back
at our selfishness and cruelty.
They will feel for us, in our unawakened barbarity.
They will think of us as lost, wild children,
as fearful animals baring our teeth and howling
in the dark.
They will be grateful that our species’ painful,
agonized coming to consciousness
is in the past.
All of this will occur long after I’m dead,
don’t you ever doubt that.
But I saw the future, and it is good.
All of our pain and struggling is for something,
is leading to something,
and there will be peace and brilliance
in the end.
All this time I thought I was reaching towards
an ancient past, clutching towards beautiful memories
seeming to be slipping through my wistful fingers
like sand, like jewels, like pearls and silver beads –
but I confused memory with prophecy and so
have been desperately reaching for something
that has never existed before;
at least not here, at least not as of now –
and so I wasn’t sent to this world to reclaim an idyllic past
but to use the future-glimpsing memories I have
to help you see it too;
to help everyone see – here, hold hands,
through this dark, follow me –
through these howling winds and along
these treacherous cliff faces, through these deceptive tricks
and comfortable stagnations that feel like progress or satisfaction
but are truly only soul-rotting putrefactions –
please believe me, close your eyes and see what I am describing –
I am here to tell you what all we can be,
what we can all learn from and then leave behind:
Someday a generation will be born that knows nothing
of rape or starvation,
of bullying leading to suicide or the torture
of animals and children.
Someday it will exist, and it will be built on our backs;
on our bones, on our knowledge, on our outgrown folly,
on our eyes that learned to look upwards,
up past what we were and into what we could be –
our descendants will look back on us
with both pride and pity
and all of our tortured stories, all of our agonies
will be only distant memories,
old dreams fading in the light.
If I Am Remembered
If I am remembered, long after I die -
let it be for the way my heart
was strong enough to hold
all those I loved.
And despite everything that occurred,
my heart remained large enough
to carry the world.
Let me be remembered
for trying my hardest to forgive,
for attempting to see the pain and reasons
worn by those who cast unprovoked stones
and then said I deserved the abuse.
Or those who, eyes distracted by their own goals,
stepped on me without seeing me
and shattered my bones.
Let me be remembered for extending kindness
even to those who had not the capacity
to perceive it.
Or to return it.
And lastly, let me be remembered for
the visions I had of a healed world,
the faith I had in the recovery
of all things corrupted and destroyed.
I always believed that
no matter how far lost at sea
a soul, a person, a society may be,
there would always be a way back.
I could look at a barren, concrete lot
and see delicate pink flowers
vining up through the cracks,
bringing insects, bringing birds,
bringing greenery back.
I could witness corpulent corporations
grasping ever-outward,
their hungry fingers consuming, destroying -
and envision instead elegant diamond towers
twisting up into the sky.
Places of selfishness transformed into bastions
of high thinking and compassion.
I could look at the hateful, screaming faces
of angry, damaged people
and see transformed individuals becoming
everything they ever wanted to be.
I could even think back to those
who had hurt me the most
and see loving, healed people who had
conquered their demons and ghosts.
I saw them living free.
Some of the things I saw
didn’t come true.
But not because they weren’t able to,
only because the choice wasn’t made,
the step not taken –
perhaps they didn’t feel
strong enough to be able to.
Or perhaps they couldn’t see it.
But the thing about transcendence
and healing – it’s never too late.
It has nothing to do with chronological age,
or past actions taken as the concrete,
unhealed version of yourself.
There’s potential, all the time, everywhere.
The electricity, the hope of it,
palpable in the air.
All of these people are just waiting
to burst into bloom.
All of these concrete lots
are waiting to be envined
in flowers.
Pressed Flowers and
the Sea Serpent
Each one of us contains an endless universe inside, spanning infinity. We hold expansive landscapes within us, from forests to deserts to boundless, ancient oceans. Fantastic, alien planets circling far-flung suns. We are unlimited in our potential, the depth of our emotions, and the complexity of our thoughts. Completely unlimited in the worlds that we carry inside.
Pressed Flowers and the Sea Serpent is an expedition to discover all that you are, all that you have been, and all that you can become. But like all such endeavors it is only a foray, a whimsical venturing on a summer afternoon. You won't find all the answers in a day, or in a page, or in a hundred pages.
This journey will never end.
Building Light
Building Light begins with the destruction of the old self, comprised of insecurities and walls built up in response to previous trauma and pain. From the rubble a voice intertwined with tones of both disillusionment and hope soon finds sure footing and begins the climb upward, into a new life and a more authentic identity.
In Building Light anything is possible, from the darkest caves where ancient monsters lurk to watercolor skies bursting into the blinding light. It is a world in which a wooden box can command more attention than a whale taking flight, and where a loved one destroying a shining precious piece of you leads to discovering that you're filled with trillions more, like countless shining stars.
Out of Something Ugly
Out of Something Ugly is an award-winning book of poetry documenting the ramifications of child abuse and neglect on a person's psyche, along with the mind's inspiring, tireless ability to endure and survive. The content in this collection was written over a ten-year span, starting from the creator's adolescence and continuing into her mid-twenties.
The cornerstones of this work include struggling with self-loathing and loneliness, processing the conflicting and overwhelming emotions felt toward the original abuser, and pushing ever onward to try to find a way out of the dark. Out of Something Ugly's mission is to draw beauty and meaning from ugly experiences so as to transform them and turn them into instruments for healing.
