I step inside Mrs. Dalloway’s mind:
it twists, turns – I’m lost in the maze,
as she spills thoughts on the page –
a link to her consciousness;
it’s a stream that overflows,
breaks embankments, floods my psyche
‘till I put the book down,
lest my mind goes manic and
doesn’t come back.
(Photo credit: A portrait photo of Virginia Woolf from Britannica.com).
Note: This poem was inspired by Mrs. Dalloway, the classic novel by Virginia Woolf. I’m reading it now, and I love it, but I’ve had to put it down a couple of times because I felt like it was triggering a manic episode.
Staring at these screens, I wonder
if I’ll get sucked inside and live in the vastness
of our Great Collective Unconscious like so many
writers have prophesied.
We’re at the creek because this is a happy place
for us – the birdsong is soothing, the trickling water
reminds me these places exist in reality –
not just the online world we live in.
The neighbor talks to me as she tends her vegetable garden –
she talks at me is more like it; I hardly get a word in, you see.
She says, “All Lives Matter;” I bite my tongue,
let her ramble, not knowing what’s bouncing in that brain.
Down the winding path, you go deep into the forest –
the dense birch trees make it so dark that only
a faint light breaks through and illuminates
the leave-strewn path.
You were told to avoid this place – a place
where corpses dangle from branches and
lay twisted on the forest floor, their faces
stuck in a final moment of eagerness to
kill a lifetime of sorrow.
The Witch Queen nurses you to health and assures you
she means no harm – the people fear her because she’s
ageless and has wandered these woods for centuries,
speaking with wild animals and traversing the dark
landscape, looking for lost travelers.
She tends to their wounds, offers medicine in her hut,
then devours them in sexual ecstasy like they’ve
never experienced before. They all leave feeling better –
the Witch Queen is your friend, not your enemy.
(Photo by Miriam Espacio on Unsplash)
Note: This poem was inspired by a character in Old Gods of Appalachia, a horror anthology podcast that I’m currently obsessed with.
In the garden, I dig my hands into the cool,
dark soil and pull out weeds – it feels so good
to connect with our Mother. The sun is shining
and I can smell the rosebush near the shed,
reminding me not all is lost, that when
we’re all gone, there will be peace again.
(Photo by Ricardo Resende on Unsplash)
Addiction is like an old record skipping,
caught in a permanent loop,
but you can’t stop the needle,
because you’re handcuffed to the radiator
and your hand is sore and bleeding from
trying to break free –
so you keep pulling until you realize
you can only accept the skipping sound
and once you do that, it’s like
you don’t even hear it.
(Photo by Steve Harvey on Unsplash)
This gothic cathedral was once a spiritual home.
Priests dabbed foreheads with holy water and
incense wafted to high ceilings and
parishioners chewed on wafers and said:
“Peace be with you.”
Why does this city feel like a living thing?
It’s like the people teeming from buildings are all
part of an organism, and the endless concrete breathes
and coughs up dust that suspends in hot air.