Bones

In the meadow where she’s gone every day

she felt the spirit beneath her, at her feet it was unmistakable.

“Bones,” one by one she scanned and put together a skeleton

it made her sad to think the creature died alone or in the cold,

it was a small skull, she brought it home to study

death up close.

“A small dog,” she speculated. “Or maybe a small raccoon.”
she could convert the stones to runes. or design

a meaningful handmade pendant

from a life spent and bones waiting for some sign of hope.

she could dig the bones a grave set with flowers and an unmarked stone.

is there more to life than this?

a pencil box for a casket,

someone alive to pass on

to not forget

that something sacred,

a small dog or sacred racoon

lived here.

I surprised myself sharing these over personal poems. A poem written last year, November 2018. I have been in Level 10 Pain for a week or so, my right hand mostly paralyzed, it hurts to hold a pencil or a paintbrush in my right hand. The pain is in my collarbone. I keep having to decline invitations to socialize and had to leave work early. And this loneliness. And this feeling like no one understands what I’m going through. I don’t need these poems any more, let these words reveal the dangerous game I’m playing. Last night’s pain was excruciating, I tried to hide the tears even though no body was watching. It felt like my skin had been torn open again, with stitches, all over again. I was scared to look at my arm, at the scars, in case it actually was tearing open. last night I had the strangest dream. I was in high school, where the halls are brightly lit, and blue lockers loom ahead, and speckled tiled floors. An old friend came to hold my hand and it surprised me. Then my old friend disappeared and I looked everywhere for him to tell him I’m sorry, but I couldn’t find this person. The rooms were empty, the desks were empty, I waited at the lockers for the sound to alarm the students class was over, but the dream was silent, the school as it is during the summer. In my dream I just wanted to apologize to my old friend but after vanishing, we never saw each other again.

Something that has been on my mind pertaining to my blog is to separate my poetry from The Wood Nymph Journal. In a way, it’s its own magazine with artists interviews and art recommendations, and I’d like to expand it as a fashion magazine. It’s been an idea on my mind since before my accident, and i’m just now feeling risky to launch a separate blog for The Wood Nymph Journal and one for my poetry, The Pretty Poems. My blog gives me a sense of pride, like a girl has for her garden. Thought I’d let my readers know to see more changes like my old domain, and transferring my editorial pieces to Wood Nymph. I’m going to concentrate on my happy heart projects like my book boutique Hyla Brook Books, reading fantasy books, and sharing my poetry more. I want to make a living as an artist but in order to create that future I have to escape my fate, and stop ruminating on shattered promises in the dark.