All poems are copyright by the authors and Survivorship. All rights reserved. You may print out one copy for use in your own healing.

Haiku

There was a thread on the message boards dedicated to haiku, and some fifty achingly beautiful poems appeared in just a few days. A haiku consists of three lines, with five syllables in the first and third lines and seven in the second. It’s amazing how much depth can be compressed into seventeen short syllables. We thank Kaitlin, Labyrinth, serendipity & cisco 8 of muse, racer, ~Q~, and Sundown for allowing us to print some of their poems.

 

Poems of Confusion, Pain, and Despair

no mistakes allowed
holding breath, careful, perfect
deep pain, wrong again halloween night
she hides in her closet
of memories

speed of light bending
looping thru insanity
infinity screams

Doubt swirls around me
It clutches at my insides
Truth is elusive.

I wonder if really
I am making all this up
The funny farm looms.

knowing all must be
a painful experience
I don’t envy God

Poems of Hope, Peace, Joy, and Strength

I see her today
My therapist, gentle, kind
But firm when needed. Birds on my fuschia
Fir trees blowing in the wind
I feel peace for now.

Survivor I am
You should know better than
To harm me again

I will tell secrets
You would rather left unsaid
Yeah baby I will

Butterflies dancing
Sunshine warms my aching bones
Alone in the woods

Survivors unite
Safely sharing memories
Strength in our numbers

Don’t Tell
by Amanda

So many secrets
Deep, dark, horrible secrets
Are buried inside me
Never to be spoken aloud
For I know they won’t understand
I can never tell
For if I do, my whole world
Will come crashing down around me
My very existence will be shaken
And I will not know how to go on
This is my life –
Secrets, pain, fear
I must keep them
Never utter a word to a single sound
For if I do, the consequences will be too
Horrible
To bear . . .

Names of the Morning Star
by D.?

I do not wish to go to the Bringer of Light,
who is not God, for He forgives.
I do not wish to go to the Bringer of Truth
whose Knowledge bites like salt on the tongue.

I do not wish to go to you, Flame of the East,
Bringer of Zion,
forger of the True Soul
from the ashes of this world

I do not wish to go to the Ends of the Earth
where knowledge is Fire
that burns the blood.

I do not wish to go to you, Father of Fire,
Left-Hand of God
nor in Your light Your Brother,
whose Cross is weighted
with despair.

I do not wish to offer up
the World as a Flaming Crucible
for Your Alchemy of Souls
where none are left un-Burnt.

I do not wish to go to you,
in Your Hallowed Halls
where the screams of children
are offered up
as gold.

The whole is not the sum of the parts
by Daniel

The whole is not the sum
of the parts:
the arithmatic of the self
is not linear
it does not fit together
as neat as geometry
pieces come unraveled
selves spin off into darkness
screams tearing holes
in the tattered fabric of the world.
I tear holes in the fabric
of this flesh
caught in my mind
like a fox in its trap
worrying itself away.
Cries strangle
tears dissolve
echoing into emptiness
echo into despair
Voiceless, muteless.
breathless, selfless, lifeless
helpless, hopeless
lost.
Take care, take care
as you struggle to bandage
these mewling shreds of selves.
Wrapped in cotton
they strangle
for birth or death
or something in between.
I am caught
and cannot hold them:
you must.

This is a memory
by Daniel and Kindern

This is a memory
of how it felt
in the place
with metal tables
where the sounds
of screams were washed clean
with lysol and disinfectant
and i don’t
even know the name
of the place
I lost my soul in.
Stillborn infantcries
choke the night’s soul
and i am drowning
in this black
vestigal wave
of memory
that is not even mine
deeper then the night
i am sinking
the sweeping echoes
of someone else’s pain
pull me under
and all that is left
is this shattering
inside myself
like a boat
finally broken
in the storm
broken again and again
they broke us
I don’t know why
or for what purpose
but broken and broken again
needles and metal and IV’s
my stomach turns
these children
want to turn from life
they say
they are the living dead
like Auschwitz survivors
their gazes haunt me
only they
are not looking towards
me they are drowning
their walls are crumbling
they carried the world
for us
they hid the shadows
so we would not die
what is it you took for me
Kindern?
why does your name
shadow me with dread
“Children of Mengele”
and you cringe
at our doctor tonight
even in the clinic
where their nurse dyed her hair
pink and we know them
you shudder drawn
both near and far
shaking in terror

Seconds
by F. G.

Words don’t come.
There are none…for
Feelings can’t hold
up…Under scrutiny of
Words…

How can words tell
A story that can’t speak?
But hides behind shadows
Of walls that I can’t see
Clearly.

Tightly wrapped…
compressed by
Years of not speaking…
Stones wrapped in strings used
To be playthings…hint at
What used to be mine…easy and
Free.

My own making now is
My prison and I
Look around not believing
That this was once my
Haven…full of life and
Light…A refuge for no
Words…

Now painful…and crowded
A choking…a wish
For no feelings to go
With no words
And a wondering why
Go on like this?

Thoughts of no life…
Desire to finally lay down
The fight and let go
Of the trying…The only
Rest that it seems might
Be lasting.

Alive still?…But why?
On knees pleading…
I can’t keep on much longer
this way…Pain with no name
Can’t stand still inside…
And I don’t know how long
I can still stand…

Cold steel that’s not
There but I feel it
In my hand…loaded.
And heavy…
Ponder what waits on
The other side of life?

What makes it so bad?
The knowing it won’t
End yet…and do I
Have it in me to lift
My foot one more
Time to step one more
Step…

Then, when I thought…
I can’t do one more second…
That second ticks by while I
Yawn…
And I’m left with
An awe of the power of a
Second.

When the Tears Won’t Come
by jcrew

When the tears won’t come
the blood will,
Seeping from me in strangled rivulets
marking me with scarlet shame. When the tears won’t come,
the blood will,
Weeping crimson from my soul
exposing my silent agony.

When the tears will come
will the bleeding end,
Saline tides washing away
the stains that came to be

Dark
by Jenny

When I tried to say that I felt no
They didn’t listen.
It was hard for me.
It was so very hard for me.
You don’t know how hard it was for me you
weren’t there.
Of course if you had let them do that to you it would have been okay
for you to let them do that to me.
It wasn’t dark for you so you don’t know
But it was dark for me
you don’t know how dark it was.
You left me there. You never showed me
where you went, your secret hiding place,
like a good mother should, so,
I had to make my own.
It took a long time to figure out how to make
my own while I was doing it. it was on my own I saw, I was forced to see, you didn’t do your job you left me there and You don’t know how dark it was.

My Mother
by Jenny H.

My mother picketed and swore
She gave me up at birth to my father to play with
Now she drinks each evening
Says it’s alright
Tough wry cynics like her and Sylvia do that
We were full-grown women
in experience and body before we recognized the farce
Too late –
we had been firmly
imprinted with what a power
what a fire
what a stellar motion
a woman could be
filled with pride,
fight, passion, rage
We were left to fill in the gap between
our inexplicably inadequate womanhood and that potential strength,
between the personal and the political
She walked hollowly away after knocking on the door behind which he tortured me Now as we blaze our own trails kicking
ass in our own rights
the taunt looms:
Are you strong or are you weak?
like a vast hologram
blocking my way at school, at work, in bed
Our first compliment, to two gay men,
(&ldquot;You must be proud of them&rdquot;):
She, grinning threateningly,
Why not? “They’re both strong women.”
We did not feel this,
vaguely aware only of having been violently
projected upon in some collapsible way
by trick mirrors reflecting back generations

My mother was a feminist
She sold me out as surely as did her backward sisters,
the mothers of the women I grieve with now.

Glazed
by Kaletal

Collage complete
Silence
Stunned
Sitting
Writing without feeling
staring at the paper
eyes glazing over
as multiple levels process
that which is nothing
nothing now
who knows about then
(she’ll never tell)
(he’ll only laugh)
Does it come from within
Never anywhere but thought?
it is a vision inside
crazy to think
reality cannot be so

Ask
by R. Kaliana

Ask the rivers how they flow
Waters diving forward,
Mastering boulders and cliffs,
Carving pathways through motion
Finding its way to the
Sea

Ask the eye of the Universe
If birth can come from
Chaos
Can something whole, complex
And organized
Arise again and again
In millions of different forms
From dust and flame and wind

Ask the redwood
Where it’s going
How did it find its way to the sky
When once its new seedling struggled
Against
A filigree blanket of fungus,
Damp needles moss and ferns

Ask the sun that beams
From inside
Your own heart
Ask your own clearwater voice
Ask the cells of your brave strong body
What you know you already
Know

The Beginning Comes
by R. Kaliana

From darkness
Celtic knotwork tree forms
Emerge from stark black sky
In birdsong spangled layers
Unmistakably alive
Color crawls forward, slowly
Determined and unashamed

You’re spent
Having run this far
Jaw unhinged, clothes torn
Face down
In a riot of damp grasses
Apricot dawn’s-light
Trails its mothering fingers
Over your prone and wasted form
You begin to choke and weep
Aggrieved of all you’ve lost

Child
You were born from the heart
Of the Universe, Herself
Where you don’t trust yourself,
We do
Wait and you’ll see why
You’ve run your course
As the raven flies
Brambles still woven
Into the clouds of your hair

Your soul
A house built of light
The beat of your heart draws the sun
From her slumber
Your life a resplendent gift

A sweep of daylight calls
Us home
Brings this old, wounded world
With her unlikely sense of humor
To find a jig in this avian reel,

Wild rosebuds unclasp
To reveal their pale gold centres
She rises to thank her breath for still being
Skips singing, now
Lithe
On

Remembering Who I Was Meant to Be
by R. Kaliana

What? You say
The warmth of the flame reaches over to touch
Cupped candle showers gold stars
Over the tiled tabletop
Tapdancing lightly over your cheekbones
Still, you say you don’ see and don’t feel The atmosphere outside
Saturates with colors of February dusk
Caramelized and rich,
Steeped with cardamom and cloves
Something new here, Spring
Bare feet on cold black earth
To start again
Morning and morning and morning and morning
Even at dusk, new roots know,
Pale but eager for change,
Night chill wraps back the threads of new growth
Still, the season is turning

There is no veil
Just my soul
Breathing open air
Just this moment
To be, sense
Feel my own being
Human and frail,
Flame stoked by something stellar
Grand and old as comet’s dust

A blue speckled egg
Breaking open
Accept change, become it, guide it, channel it forward
with grace
Nurture, for it is you and yours
The Universe is waiting, little one
For the nestling’s whisper of your oracle

Your hands, you know
Are the only hands
That can give your truth to the world
Your hands, you know
Are the only hands
That can receive the great love that comes to you
And through you, that is you
It is an honor to carry this spirit

This feathered thing laughing like water
Rains soak down, into chapped earth
Taproots drink, growing stronger
I quench my thirst and theirs
Every day I am true to my heart

Transcendence is the book
Written on the surface of your soul,
In light
Delicate and strong as spider’s silk at dawn
Cup the candle to your face
The fire is inside you
The stars are you and yours
They tease you from your slumber
It’s morning, child
It’s time to rise.

Flowing
by Karen

She said nothing
loud as it was
sounding bold
forever untold.
then she cried
the tears just flowed
until nothing could help
nothing would unload
dragging her down
to the depths of despair
breathing not
floating far
wishing for what?
never to return?
it hurts.
it won’t stop.
sobbing in silence
throat aching
numb

(Happy) Halloween
by ~Q~

My mother smiles more
with the holiday approaching,
almost licking her lips
with anticipation
as she stares at me.
But nothing in me smiles.
Somehow I know
this year
I am the Virgin. Tonight the medicine
tastes more bitter,
the darkness comes
far earlier,
and though I fight it off,
sleep inevitably conquers me.
I slip into that vulnerable place,
now at the mercy
of the Merciless.

In this hypnotic state,
surrealistic visions pass by –
naked women
dancing themselves
into a frenzy,
cackling,
howling,
chanting,
mixed with the

cracking voice
of my mother,
animalistic noises,
the smell of raw fish –
(the overwhelming smell
of raw fish), the smell
of raw meat, of raw
flesh, of my own raw flesh.

I am cold, my teeth
chatter like a skeleton’s,
the face of which
appears as I shiver,
one face after another,
as screams and screeches
and odors and lights
overwhelm me. The face of my
Grandfather wrapped in a
bearskin, the thick smell of
candle wax, and the childish face
of my aunt peering down
into my own. So many
swirling images as the
knife rips into my chest,
the widened eyes of my aunt,
the yelp of a puppy as
I am drenched with warmth,
the warmth of its crimson blood
spilling over me . . .

The warmth of my own bed,
the warmth of the sunrise peeking
through my window, the warmth
of the Vaseline I smear between my legs,

and as blood trickles down my thigh,
the warmth of knowing that
someone else’s daughter
will be the Virgin
next year.

Candle on the Water
by Janice G. Knowlton

There’s a time to be a light
shining from the shore
instead of being swallowed by the sea.

A time to step aside
nursing my own wounds
instead of plunging in, where I would be

another drowning victim
joining all the others
lost forever on the ocean floor.

There’s a time to be a lighthouse
showing by example
one can finally reach the exit door.

The exit from the hell
we lived in all those years,
an entrance to a better life on earth.

The door that I passed through
can open up for you,
and everything it cost me

Not a Mistake
by Catherine M

My rage, my anger
cements these memories
into place.

I watch this structure
taking shape – it is the past,
pieces once buried,
hidden in thousands of cells of sleep.

The fire, the flame is lit,
burning day and night.

Could there have been a mistake?

I do not try to answer,
feeling the depth of this pain, this grief,
the near loss of my soul
as answer enough.

I Know
by Manders

There are some things I know that you will never know
And I wish you knew how lucky you are
I know what the inside of a human abdomen looks like, when the person is still alive
And conscious, and what their screams sound like
I know Latin words that I should never know, spoken in chants
I know the arc of blood spurting from a neck which has just been cut
And the amount of blood that can flow out of a murdered child
I know what a fetus looks like when it is taken from the womb, not ready to come into the world yet
I know what the wounds look like, that are inflicted by a cat-o-nine tails whip, and the sounds that are made by the person being whipped, when she is trying not to make a sound
I know the sound of a person dying, having been stabbed in the chest or had their throat cut
I know what a human finger, and arm, and leg look like, freshly cut from a body
I know the size of human organs, and know what they taste like
I know the metallic taste and smell, the oily texture of blood in the mouth
I know what it feels like to be hung by the wrists and have the shoulder dislocated then popped back in
I know the imagination of monsters who think of any number of things to put into a child’s vagina
I know the screams of cats and rabbits being burned alive or skinned alive, and the look of terror in their eyes
I know the pain of going about daily life after being raped by groups of people the night before
I know the horror of being forced to watch a pet killed
I know the humiliation of being raped over and over again for the cameras
I know that people are murdered and tortured every day and nobody does anything to help them
I know that children disappear and babies die without ever having birth certificates and nobody cares
I know how to split off parts of my mind so it is possible to live a life in the real world and in hell
I know what my body looks like being raped, from up above
I know how to pretend I am getting pleasure out of torture and rape
I know what human flesh tastes like when it is still warm
I know the feeling of mice crawling all over a naked body
I know so many things that you don’t know
And it hurts
And I don’t want you to know these things
But I want you to listen and help me and believe me and not leave me alone

As I lay thee down to sleep
by Meg

as I lay thee down to sleep, I pray the Lord thy soul to keep
if you should die before you wake, I pray the Lord thy soul to take

my grandfather’s whisper as he places me in a small open box
in a hole in the ground
the lid goes on
the thudding of earth louder than thunder have you ever been buried underground?
the silence is indescribable how old are you child?
how old do you want me to be?
roll up, roll up! balloons of every colour!
what is your fancy my pretty? clowns frighten me I am an infant unable to lift my head
learning to roll
then able to sit
up on my feet on a ship in a storm
balanced now but wary of the world
running free but never free
and on it goes
through the months
through the years and now I am 4
well practised
well versed
I wonder when this changed
from private to public
from just me and you to this gathering of demons
or were they always here
empty eyes
dark eyes
lost souls feeding your hands are strong as you raise me high
then place me in the earth again
I feel no fear
my muscles soft
accepting
just enough tension to not be limp
you have trained me well
are you proud of me Grandfather?

Stun Guns Leave Scars
by pamela

Stun Guns leave scars.
Stun Guns leave scars.
Stun Guns leave scars.
Stun Guns Leave scars. Stun Guns Leave SCARS
STUN GUNS LEAVE SCARS.
STUN GUNS LEAVE SCARS.

You tied me to a chair
Don’t think I will forget
Said give it up or else
And stunned me in the eye. The scar’s still there today
What do you have to say?
I’m grateful you’ve gone away,
I’ll cheer the day you die. Stun guns leave scars.
Stun guns leave scars.
Stun guns leave scars.
Stun guns leave scars.

Now That I Know
by piilani

now that i know
that i have forgotten my abuse,
i want to remember,
what i’ve spent 30 years,
denying.
the urge to unearth
the cause of my symptoms
obsesses my every waking
and sleeping moment.
i want to know why
i’m afraid to shower, fear the dark,
despise myself.
why i always feel watched,
why i feel guilty when i’m happy.
why i carve my skin,
to calm down.
why i cringe when touched,
and feel crazy,
most of the time…
these symptoms come from something,
or someone.
when will i remember
so i can forget
all that i’ve become?

Renewal
by s. progress

On the full moon you visit
your snake of memories
crawls red and wet from my fountain of flowing blood.
Unsettled, you crawl across my flesh
your feet leave imprints on my skin. My blood slides across your curves,
Our sweat builds hot rivers
on stained flowered sheets
muscles are at war

Fierce movements rattle my paper-thin walls.
Renewed you curl against the inner walls of my soul.

Wasted Years
by s. progress

Wasted hours preparing Sunday School lessons
instead of working on memories
and reporting the fathers of hate Teaching hate to our children
instead of instilling self-love

of hate and violence of hate
is what we call religion.

Hate and violence directly opposing
nature and all that is natural.

Step On A Crack
by Q

Had I lived in town
I’da jumped them cracks
just like them other girls.
I’da sung them songs
and hopped real high,
just like them girls with
those blonde braids
flying through the air. ’Course when they
wasn’t looking, I mighta
dropped my toe down
over the edge of one of
them cracks. I mighta even
plunked my whole foot down
and then laughed real loud
while them other girls gasped
in disbelief. Why them girls
mighta even thought I didn’t
care bout my mama,
breaking her back that way. But I didn’t hafta worry ’bout
them girls in town and them
sidewalk games. I was
too busy doing other things,
like chores, and schooling,
and hiding from my daddy,
and hiding from his daddy,
and hiding from them
drunkard friends of theirs;
’cuz mama didn’t care ’bout me
’nough to save me, and after all,
there ain’t no sidewalks
on them country roads.

Dead People
by Q

Dead people
are like scarecrows,
they cannot hurt you. I cautiously
step over
his arm.
It cannot hurt me,
it’s no longer
attached to his body.

My sister vomits.
I hold my nose
as my free hand
reaches toward
his blood spattered hat.
I want to make sense of it all.

Grandma says it will
never make sense.
She just wants
his skin scraped
from the front of her house.

Paperdolls
by ~Q~

We cut ourselves
from paper, one
flat hand connected
to the next. We cut ourselves
faceless, except
the one with the “O”
shaped mouth scribbled
on with black marker.

We cut ourselves
lame, having only
straight, flimsy
legs with no feet.

We cut ourselves
bloodless, silent, empty;
a string of children
with no eyes.

We cut ourselves
numb; we shed no
tears, feel no pain.

We cut ourselves
into confetti, throw
ourselves into the air
and celebrate that
we will never be
played with again.

Find a Penny, Pick It Up
by Q

“All the day
you’ll have good luck.”
And so I searched deep
crevices drawn in the mud
by bicycle tires and
the boots of man;
and likewise probed
sidewalk cracks where
unwanted migrants cried
out for chlorophyll, not
wanting to wear the deep
brownness of death/birth,
the richness of earth
and earthworms,
juxtaposing themselves into
hermaphroditic dances.
Yet, the gritty sand
lying stagnant within
my veins was the only
copper I discovered.

Bright, bold screaming
Red – the angry red
of fire trucks and stop signs,
other’s blood and mother’s
milk had no place in my heart.
Red was the heat of her orgasm,
her shrieks clamoring through
my head, as my toes romped
through cockleburs, stinging
flesh that leaked pain but
could not stop.

It was the red of douche
bulbs and carmine flowers
that hid my childhood
in blue; the cool, compliant
blue of summer skies and
rabbit’s eyes that veiled
the sunshine from my soul.
It was the artic blueness
of icicles and hailstorms,
the watery blueness of hungry
lakes and insatiable oceans,
the silent blueness of severed
limbs, it was this blue,
the threatening blueness
of dead lips, that kept mine
quiet. “And all the day
you’ll have good luck.”
But there was no luck to be found,
not in asphalt driveways,
or church parking lots, not on
squeaky clean linoleum floors
or slid between couch cushions.
There was no magical copper,
there was only red –
the crimson cage of her desires,
and blue, the unvoiced tears
of my stolen childhood.
And no coins, not even
Lincoln’s copper pennies,
could repaint that canvas.

Echo
by Raj

No I said
No no no no no
Bouncing from one canyon wall to the other
Fading to nothing
One side my father
One side me
Waking with a mouthful of blood
Waking with a startle and nothing else Between us it fades to nothing
As if it never was
No no thing no never

Don’t even think about it
No

The Lost Mind Still Endures
by Ruutie

Do not imprison me!
Do not punish me!
I am lost,
but I want to find a way.
I want to be formed into my own self
in peace and acceptance.
The world is a horrible place for a human,
who is totally lost within herself.
A horrible place,
because it is not permitted to be lost.
Because you have to be some particular kind,
under fear of punishment,
You have to do fine, accomplish,
and whip yourself into incredible achievements because of expectations,
waiting punishment. And hide that you’re lost.
“Pull yourself together, you brat!”
Says the world.
“You’re guilty! Shame on you!
We teach you obedience, and how to be.
You are not supposed to do this!
You are not allowed to do that!
You cannot behave like you do.
Be like this, or you will regret it.
Be like that, or we will teach you.
We will tie you up” And I carry my pain alone.
I accomplish.
Till I find people and refuge
where I can be me.
Whatever I am, whoever I am.
But willing and longing to get help for my pain,
for my troubles.
I’ll wait till then. I’ll wait as long as it takes.
I’ll hold on tightly and I’ll hide.

You will not catch me anymore!
You will not force me into anything anymore!
You won’t humiliate me and punish me anymore. No more!!

I have decided to survive,
I have decided to find a way to life,
No human being is in my way.

I need help.
Not hatred and ridiculing,
not despising and doubting.
If you can forget those, and stand with me,
you’re welcome.
If you can hear stories from hell,
I would like you to sit beside me and listen.

My pain comes from the deepest depths of a heart,
and it is filled with bottomless grief.
But if you can take it,
please, stand by me,
and be there when I weep my pain out.

Just Means Nothing…
by Rose

Split second pictures flashing by inside
Unsure questions, were they real?
Quickly over & gone
Push away, move forward
Must just mean nothing… Rising fears coming from nowhere
Don’t forget to breathe
It will be okay
Things to do, turn away
Must just mean nothing…

Ghostly voices whispering words
Needn’t listen anymore
Not really there
Just ignore it, it will stop
Must just mean nothing…

Shrieks of screaming terror
Look around, look within
No hurting to be seen
Run away, cover up
Must just mean nothing…

Intangible feelings, confusion
Cry, struggle for control
Emotions don’t lie
Grow up, focus
Must just mean nothing…

Deadly choking, squeezing, pounding force
Fight back stronger, live
No one can get you
Don’t be crazy
Must just mean nothing…

Permeating denial deeply ingrained
Disobey, think for self
Truth unfolds, all adds up
Trust the process
How can it all mean nothing?

Dayenu
by Sonia

If God had split the sea for us, and not let us through it on dry land,
Dayenu, it would have been enough for us.
If He had let us through it on dry land, and not drowned our enemies in it,
Dayenu, it would have been enough for us.
If He had drowned our enemies, and not provided for our needs in the desert for 40 years,
Dayenu, it would have been enough for us.
If He had provided for us for 40 years, and not fed us with the Manna,
Dayenu, it would have been enough for us.
– Traditional Passover song, “Dayenu” (Enough). If I had only grown breasts,
Dayenu, it would have been enough.
If I had only started my monthly bleeding,
Dayenu, it would have been enough.
If I had only been raped,
Dayenu, it would have been enough.
If it had only been my father,
Dayenu, it would have been enough.
If I had only desired him,
Dayenu, it would have been enough.
If I had only conceived,
Dayenu, it would have been enough.
If I had only adored the life within,
Dayenu, it would have been enough.
If I had only felt her adoration in return,
Dayenu, it would have been enough.
If they had only triggered labor when I barely showed,
Dayenu, it would have been enough.
If my father had only stood away from me,
Dayenu, it would have been enough.
If my mother had only steadied me, hip to my hip,
Dayenu, it would have been enough.
If my favorite teacher had only administered the enema,
Dayenu, it would have been enough.
If my daughter had only died in my cupped hands,
Dayenu, dayenu, dayenu,
It was enough to bow my shoulders, steal my voice,
Seal the glass shards of truth away from myself.
But that was not enough for them.
They tore the small body apart,
Forced a tiny leg and foot between my lips.
We silently resumed our daytime lives.

Silently
by Susan Shields (Susan and scared)

Silently, he flies over my head
landing on the weathered garage.
The darkness
shields his eyes
yet I know he is watching me.
I recall an old Indian folktale;
“when an owl calls your name
death will come
and take you home”
I listen for my name.

Sometimes I Feel So Alone
by Susan Shields (Susan and Scared)

Sometimes I feel so alone it hurts
Actual physical pain
Deep in my center
Hurt not to be shown

To another
So I pick up my little dog
Bury my face in his fur
Hold him to my chest
As tightly as I can
Without squeezing a little b umfb from him
And as I hold him
I become aware that, somewhere inside
A tear is falling
My tear
I don’t know where it comes from
And I don’t know where it goes
But in my head I can see it
Suspended above
An enormous seemingly bottomless black pit
Of tears
As I stand, looking down into that darkness
That single tear forms in my eye
Slowly slips down my face
Hovering on the end of my chin
Before dropping
And I stand there for a long time
Listening, listening, listening
And then I hear it
Barely audible
Plink
dances.

I Wish…
by Tammy

I wish for a mommy
Who wants a little girl
I wish for a mommy
To make pretty dresses that swirl
I wish for a mommy
Who can laugh and sing, dance and play
I wish for a mommy
To make the nightmares go away
I wish for a mommy
To give me smiling teddy bears
I wish for a mommy
Who loves me and cares
I wish for a mommy
To give me hugs and kisses
I wish for a mommy
Who isn’t pretend in my wishes. I wish for a mother
Who wants a daughter that is grown
I wish for a mother
Who is proud of the success I have achieved alone
I wish for a mother
To weep with in times of sorrow
I wish for a mother
Full of wisdom to borrow
I wish for a mother
To share my hopes and dreams
I wish for a mother
To say things aren’t as bad as they seem
I wish for a mother
To give me hugs and kisses
I wish for a mother
Who doesn’t exist only in wishes.

I Want to Cross Over into Campground

The small storms, like heat lightning far off in the inner distance, where I can’t quite pinpoint the location, make me nervous, irritate and distract me. The huge black, roaring storms cracked by searing, splitting lightning almost erase me. Although I can’t see it from where I am smothered in blackness and thunder and scorched with sudden fear and panic and bursts of fiery anger, there’s almost always some other place that stays calm and quiet, that is softly lit and gently singing and smells like sweet sage.