I Scribe Soul Moments

Evolution

2012-01-30T00:59:00.001-08:00

i brushed a rose
across my forehead,
buried my face in her red,
where the blood flows.

i am immersed in the most
elegant state of being;
there's a dangling energy
drifting inside of me.

somewhere in this sea
lives a creature of mystery,
and i'm reveling tonight,
pulling down on this
new moon. it's a fight

damn, it's a fight.

it's a raindrop synagogue,
gonna worship at the shrine,
something's pushing out
bout to leave something behind.

i'm writing this shit in pieces,
it's taking months
got my face in pillows
i'm a weeping willow of
solitary confinement

self induced recourse

it's a necessary process of
writing out the vowels
and wringing out the towels
as I disembowel.

I got this gift
it came with a price
not minimal sacrifice,
but a whole child's life,
and if I had to give mine

to help us understand

it's a worthy exchange
in the interim.

Sometimes air cuddles me
wraps me in its invisibility,
like a cosmic father
keeping safe his daughter.

they say perfection is infinity
and if that's the case
I'll never be finished with me.

I'm at the edge; got feet dangling
I'm wrangling with the finish line
hurry up and wait
hold on, not time;

the hardest part of writing
is writing
the hardest part of dying
is holding onto breath
the hardest part of living
is awakening the happiness

these moments are pertinent
to the whole of the evidence
these experiences so relevant
to the places we can ascend.

i brushed a rose
across my forehead
smelled her scent
and lived again.

~vennie~

(copyright @ dbv publishing 2012)

Let Go The Reins

2012-01-25T00:18:00.001-08:00

Everything feels against the wire for Philly. This is his last year in high school. I can feel the pressure of his transition into adulthood pressing down on him. It is hard at times to sit back and let him figure it all out on his own. I give him support and remind him how capable is. I remind myself that I have to let him carve his own path, just like I did his older brother. He really is doing a great job. I beam with pride at his capabilities.

My sons have taught me more about myself than anyone else I’ve known in my life.

He has access to a scholarship which will pay for most of his college. Grants will pick up the rest. Where once he was considering going for a football scholarship, I am so glad he didn’t end up doing what he really did NOT want to do; play football in college. I never wanted him to feel the need to have to walk in his father’s footsteps. He is his own person.

He is job searching, figuring it all out, wondering, worrying, making decisions, and I breathe deep. I am wistful and full of angst. I wonder where the next few years will take us. I miss my eldest son. He seems so far away in Nevada. It is a bittersweet feeling, this separation of these young men I adore so deeply.

Those moments when they were small, when I, on nights of exhaustion, let that thought cross my mind of “I’ll be glad when they’re grown”; they were all lies. I’m not always glad they’re grown. Sometimes I miss their little chubby hands, the drooling on my shirts, and the way they looked so adoring at me when they lifted their little heads from their naps. At times I long for their hands curled around my finger, and their mouth against my breast, and the oneness we had of mother and child.

I stand back, and I watch them. I whisper a prayer from my lips that I did okay, that I prepared them enough, that I didn’t damage them too much from my own mistakes. Then I let the reins slip from my hand, and I wish them angel wings as they fly into the world to live as men.

Shadowland

2012-01-14T02:11:00.001-08:00

I am fearful in this place. I’m examining why. The house is large, looming, open and in the woods. I search the skies and love the massive stars, but these evenings there are looming staircases and dark sounds of howling. I am seeing flashes of arms snatching me back; this fear, where am I traveling?

Only here do I journey it, but I don’t want to. I don’t feel safe. I feel vulnerable in this forest. I ponder the attachments. I am back in cabins, drawn to the dense fir trees, but the energy here doesn’t sit well. So I sleep, hibernate, needing the city like gravity.

This house whispers and talks, or maybe it’s just the wind. Tonight the gossip of snow has the birds sleeping, leaving air valleys for the wild dogs to channel ancients. The language echoes in the silence, and I am pulling slowly back to thirty four years ago.

Sometimes, I think I came here through a dark cavern; a place that was so haunting, this human life would be but a chore. There are shadows that follow. They carry unknown memories with black eyes, begging to be unwrapped. My hands are limp. I can’t move them, and I stare back, wishing.

I’m going to go there soon, to that place where the secrets live. Shadowland, that’s what we call it; where hallways fade from the knee up and dark rooms hold memories that little girls can’t bear to tell.

~Sila Caprin “Cult Child”

Sometimes People Look Old Before Their Time

2012-01-10T22:55:00.001-08:00

Sometimes people look
Old before their time

The lines on their faces
Come early like
The sections of pain
Just couldn't sit
Inside anymore so
They seeped out
Onto the bodies
Creating strained
Pockets of water
The sadness that
Never got cried out

I watch faces age quickly

There are young women
Who look like grandmothers
The weight of their anger
Forcing their skin
Towards gravity

Their lips smile but
Their eyes hold no shine
They are empty
Morose hollows
Staring from pictures

I wonder who
They think they're fooling
Or if maybe
I'm the few who sees

I understand the shine love can be

I wish for magic wands

Sometimes people become
Old before their time
Trudging invisible walkers
Made of situations
With heavy legs
Constructed from blame
And tearless fingers made
From strings of bitterness

How long can a
Spirit carry such weight
Before it bends beneath
The dark matter
Humans pile
On top of themselves

Sometimes people age
Before they've
Lived half their life
Walking skeletons
Constantly searching
For the graveyard
Inside their yearning

There's a fountain
Called youthfulness
The ones ancients
Used to sing of
This liquid called
Love
They could drink
Become infants
Until the lines became
Infinite

But sometimes
People choose to
Age before their time

{copyright @ dbv publishing]

Welcome to the Twelve!

2011-12-29T19:59:00.001-08:00

The Eleven has ended, and the Twelve has arrived. I am ready to move forward in these wonderful times that have come so swiftly upon us. My friends, your love and support has been a catalyst in me continuing to stay motivated to create. For one who is never at a loss for words, I struggle to find the right ones to properly show my appreciation.

I wrote a song to express my feelings of my experiences in 2011. I hope you enjoy the video. Thanks for being a part of this ride, beautiful ones!

Congratulations

Releasing and Renewing

2011-12-17T23:24:00.001-08:00

As this year comes to an end, things are being revealed to me in a swift way. In the past few days, I’ve had so many negative revelations thrown at me. I’ve been attacked verbally via email by someone I was a good friend to. Just today, I had someone reveal to me some things that another good friend was saying behind my back; a friend who I really have believed cared for me when she said she did. I felt immediate hurt and sadness. I wanted to confront her, to try and figure out why she would be so harmful. Yet as I remained quiet inside of myself, I allowed my spirit guide to bring me greater understanding. This person is simply rooted in deep self hatred and jealousy. When she is done directing at me, and when I move away from her, she will find another person to direct it at. Confronting her would only push her deeper into that dark place she resides. Instead, I choose to send her love, if even from a far as I quietly separate myself from the connection.

I understand through meditation that these things are being revealed to me with purpose so that when I move into this next phase of my life, I can freely release these connections, giving them love. I can leave behind the emotions they attempted to illicit and allow it to be another strong lesson of the capability of my love. I hope that there is healing that comes for all of us. I can move forward knowing that I did the best I could with what I have been dealing with.

I have been quiet silent in my own struggles, dealing with them through conversations with writing, nature and my own connection to Light. I want to continue to allow them to help me learn to love without judgment, to speak without Ego and to accept each person where they stand.

I accept my darkness, and I accept my light, understanding that each one allows me to have balance. When in the past I would have ran a thousand questions over in my head, wondering what I may have done wrong, this time, I can know that I kept my intentions rooted on surviving with as little burden on others as I possibly could, being grateful with the fullest of my being, and staying focused in the tasks that I know I must do.

I cleanse. I shed. I renew myself, and I keep my eyes on the goal.

The Universe is Amazing

2011-12-01T22:34:00.001-08:00

I was looking at the star map over the temporary writing house I moved into to knuckle down and get my novel written. In the sky above the front lawn area hovers the Constellation Pisces. Right beside her and directly over the house the Star Cluster March hovers. The winter constellations came over this area in mid October and will be here until March of 2012.

It looks like this:

Sky above 47°36'32"N 122°20'13"W at Fri 2011 Dec 2 4:58 UTC

Are you ready for the important part?

I moved into this house in October. My birthday is March 14th. I am a Pisces. I have been rebirthing through this novel, right under my own birth sign, and I didn’t even know it

I am in awe of the Divine. She is amazing!

Thank you!

Uncertainty

2011-11-27T13:10:00.001-08:00

Today is one of those days where I feel alone. Today, I wistfully imagine how it would feel to be wrapped up in the arms of Him, whoever he may be, my head against his beating chest, safe, loved and protected. I pull the pillow to my chest to imagine, for just a moment, that I am not here in this solitary house with just the raindrops to keep me company. I let a tear slide, because my soul is affected.

I wonder sometimes how long this uncertainty lasts; how long before the exhaustion takes over from fighting against the ever changing frayed future. I can do nothing but just wait. I can do nothing but just know that what will happen is what will be.

Yet today I am filled with the awareness that I am not always in like company even when I am with friends. There is a link I cannot plug into and an effort of existence to which I cannot relate. I have come to know no other way except to simply be inside of the realness. I stand apart from the collective. I don’t feel at home there.

I wonder if I’ve ever known what it is to be kissed by lips who do so because my face is adored, because sharing my air becomes his necessary breath; because there’s more there than the fingers that creep away from a mouth using kisses as hopeful distractions. I am alive in the reality, that I never have. Every hand that has touched me, every tongue that has grazed mine had bitter intent.

There’s a mystic somewhere in the meadow, knees against the sharp blades, and I call to her with pleading eyes. I tell her I am tired. She doesn’t look at me, her face raised to the sky, and I am shattered by knowledge, laden with truth and weary from being human.

I rest my head against the pillow asking sleep to taken me into unawareness. I smile at the fogged window as the wind makes raindrop faces in the pane. I soak in the sounds of this place like love and whispers. I am one day at a time, and today, I am awkwardly aware of how long it’s been since I have felt Him, whoever he may be, hiding in that space where never seems like eternities.

Eating Healthy on a Starving Artist’s Budget

2011-11-21T22:35:00.001-08:00

Let’s face it. I’m a starving artist. I won’t complain. I chose this life, and I enjoy every day that I can create. Yet earning a living often comes to be a system of strategy and hustling. As I’ve settled into this life I’ve chosen, I have become quite the chess player. I thought I’d share with you how I budget meals each week. I mix it up. I’ll share with you all again next week so you can see.

This week’s budget was $20.00.

Oh how I do love the Grocery outlet. They receive the rejected loads of groceries from the big chain grocery stores like Wal-Mart, Trader Joes, Whole Foods, Fred Meyer, etc. at cost so their prices are considerably lower. Did I mention they have an amazing organic section.

I imagine a society where the food we eat consists of what we can personally make and barter in our neighborhood (I bake yummy pies and sweet breads for your wonderful cucumbers and ripe red tomatoes. I go straight to the local wheat farmer’s society in my city to buy flour and grain for my baked goods. See where I’m going here?), but for now, I happily skip through the aisles of the G.O.

Here’s my menu for the week:

I bought some bran muffins. One for each morning to have with tea. $1.79

2 Bags of Kidney Beans .99/each – 1.98

1 – onion .50

already have at home, garlic and seasoning salts

Throw in crockpot overnight, let them cool, divide them out into 5 separate containers, put about a cup for each person. Then freeze. Put the rest in the refrigerator the next couple of days. If you have a little extra for your budget, a loaf of french bread cut into 7 slices, gives each of you a slice to go along with it. I try to keep my carb consumption low, so I only get bread occasionally.

For lunch and day time eating, I bought salad fixings. I like mustard greens. I like the spicy tinge to them. They add their own flavor.

1 Bag of Mustard Greens – $1.99

I immediately empty it into an air tight container to keep it fresh longer.

For the salad -

1 – box of white mushrooms – $1.59 (I will also use these to make stuffed mushrooms with some left over cream cheese from last week that I need to use up. Pop out their stems, mix up some cream cheese with finely chopped onion and garlic salt and pepper, and you have yummy mushroom poppers!) Put them in an air tight container as well. They will stay fresh in the fridge longer.

4 – Zucchini – 4/2.00

2 – Yellow Squash to fix during the week to give me a little more substance and fiber in my diet. 2/1.00

1 – box tomatoes – 1.59

1 – bag of carrots – .99

2 – limes for dressing with some EEVOO and smashed raspberries 2/1.00

4 – Avocados – 4/2.00 – a little unripe, but with a few days sitting will ripen on their own and become soft and ready to eat. worth the wait – great for a mid-day snack. Cut in 1/2, pop out the core, and scoop with a spoon. Yummy!

Oh! and eating with chopsticks is fun, and great to slow down your eating. We tend to wolf our food down, instead of savoring it.

All in all, my grocery bill came up to 18 and some change, and I have good, nutritious food to eat. You can also couple the beans with rice if you want more substance. A bag of rice is about .99 cents.

Drink a lot of water and enjoy tea!

and there’s how to eat healthy while being a starving artist.

Love you!

Shifting

2011-11-17T21:24:00.001-08:00

Since 11.11.11, I have been extremely more aware of the moon and the trees. I didn’t think it was possible for me to be more connected than I already was. I was quite mistaken. The shift that has happened is very defined.

I became attached to the moon and trees at a very young age. I didn’t understand them. I just knew that I loved being in and near them. I felt safe when I was sitting at the base of a tree. I felt often sad when I was staring at the moon. I couldn’t define any of these emotions.

In my early thirties I came across an exercise to help understand how the moon affects us. In short, take a lunar calendar, and each day, write your most prevalent emotion for the day. Do this for 60 days. Try not to look back to prior weeks or days. Just write the emotion and move on. After the end of the 60 days, you might see a pattern emerge where certain emotions were consistently on particular moon phases.

When I did mind, I found that I was often introspective, brooding, most sad, wrote poetry more on the times when the moon was waning. I found that on the waxing moon, I tended to be more technically focused, driven and inspired. It has been consistent through the years.

It has flipped.

As 11.11.11 swept through, the moon was Full, shining brilliantly. She was amazing. As she has waned to the New Moon, my focus is incredibly sharp. I have completed tasks, not been too easily distracted, new ideas have flown in and business opportunities emerged.

I feel confirmed that those of us who have suffered through this lifetime have just felt a reverse of this energy. Wonderful times are here… not COMING. No, they are already here. Go from wishing for, to confirming and thanking for their arrival.

Love is my religion.

Paintbrushes and Moonbeams

2011-11-10T20:44:00.001-08:00

He brought me paintbrushes. That thoughtful young man. We pan grilled tilapia, slightly blackened with cilantro and lime. I mixed up boxed red beans and rice and sipped a glass of cheap wine.

What a moon tonight, drifting through the kitchen window, brilliantly calling my name. We sit on the front porch momentarily as she shines to the left of me. I greedily take that side of the stoop. Render me selfless, I beg of her, Render me in all that is love.

Across the street, curtains open, milling about shadows, two tall, one small, the little boy who waved at me when I pulled out of the drive the other day. He was pure silver smiles and waving hands, eyes that said, Connect with Me, and I did, cuz when that moment passes with a child, it feels like the purest Light. They are delighted by your face.

How many of them, on nights like these, sit unaffected, bustling in the self circle, television droning, watch on to see what the others are doing, manifesting madness, and I’m snapped back a bit as she whispers “Look at Me.”

I gaze at the reflection of that energetic sun, beaming on me like a celestial strobe.

“Look, Mom, a chemtrail.” he says, and the almost grown boy sees batman’s robe floating in the orb. the moment shattered as the chemical energy scattered, sky passengers transported, drifting sleepily across the sky.

she distracts my face, and we will it invisible, making silent memories before the day, shifting, I hold my hands into the sink to wash a dish, because it’s moments like this when I feel awake and terrified all in the same, but the anticipation outweighs the frustration.

I take moments that drift away when boys become of age, engulfed in the reality of what we fight to change.

“Let go. You can trust me.” She says, and things are as they should be.

#shespeaks

2011-11-05T17:12:00.001-07:00

“speak to them in their language.” she said. “some things are purposefully unsaid until you’re 100% confident that you’re speaking with the undead.”

undead… because it means you are Alive.

The Voice In My Head

2011-11-03T01:32:00.001-07:00

The first time I remember her, I was four. She didn't speak at all back then. She held my hand a lot, and my memory of her is completely visual, no sound, like a silent movie. She had long black hair and wore cloaks, dark ones that reached to her feet, sometimes dark blue or black. She had a beautiful milky white face and dark eyes that had smile lines, and she smiled at me often. She took me to beautiful places; flower fields, riding horses, cliffs by the sea. She was my disassociative Mother. She was always waiting for me when the pain became too much, and I drifted away.

I don't know much about what kinds of voices other people hear. Son of Sam said he heard a voice telling him to kill. I haven't done in depth psychological studies. I am not prone to delve into the Hitler born era of the psychiatry world. Maybe we hear the channels we are tuned into as children. Maybe our parents and our conditioning choose for us what our third ears hear. I have no explanation for anyone, except the understanding that I have of my own self.

I know that I became tuned into her actual voice and words about seven years ago. I started opening up my spirit, slowly, very slowly, peeking my head up over the muck and trying to see what was outside of that black hole in which I had been buried. I didn't hear her clearly. I often shook her voice from my head. After years of being called crazy and mentally ill, my psyche was working overtime to try and ignore what was going on in my mind and body.

There are moments of my childhood that I experienced that hold no explanations. There were no books read to me which planted seeds of knowledge. No televisions to tell me of magical lands. No conversations in my presence that spoke of mysticism. There were moments I connected with something greater than myself, and I knew it wasn't anything that matched what was being preached to me by ministers. I didn't know exactly what it was. I knew only what it wasn't, and I knew that I loved it.

I knew there was someone who protected me, who was there for me. Was she an imaginary friend? Did I make her up? Was she a part of me? She is so real to me, and I see her from my child eyes. I see myself as a little girl, and I feel her as she is a separate entity from me.

Over the last couple of years, I've actively magnified my conversations. I do not know if she is the same woman who was with me as a child, but I do know that I have active conversations with a woman. She speaks loudly and clearly in my head, and she gives me wonderful guidance.

I have come to have typical conversations with her. Once, when I was driving to counsel a friend, I felt unsure of myself, and the conversation I struck up with her went like this:

Me: I do not know how to get [name] to see that what she's doing is harmful to herself.
Her: Don't focus on that. It doesn't matter. It is only important that you remind her of who she is.
Me: Alright, I will do that.
Her: You ramble too much. Stop doing that shit. Listen and give small reassuring reminders.
Me: You cussed (She never cusses).
Her: Sometimes I have to talk like you so you'll understand me.

We laughed.

Yes, I have many conversations like these with her.

Last night, as I was starting to overwhelm myself she said,

"Stop it. You're always doing that. Stay in the moment."
Me: I know you're right.
Her: just let it flow. stop over analyzing. write the memory as you know it and move onto the next. Before you know it, the book will be finished.
Me: I know I can do this
Her: Yes, you can and you will. It's your destiny. It's why you're here.

I began to cry.

Me: Who are you?
Her: I am your mother. No, not the mother you had there. I am your other Mother.

I asked her to explain. She fell silent. I could have easily gotten caught up into that conversation, but she falls silent when she is finished, and I knew that she had no more to say because I needed to be writing.

Sometimes, I sit silent and ask her if she has anything to say to me. Sometimes she says, "No, just keep moving forward, keep staying in that moment, keep not worrying about the next one. you're doing a good job."

She encourages me, and I hope to meet her face to face soon, my spirit guide who has been holding my hand for so long. I do not know if she is the same woman who held me when I was a child, but I know that she loves me and guides me in ways that keep me reminded of who I am and my purpose.

Maybe we should start listening more to "the voices in our heads.” at least the ones who love us…. and let them drowned out the ones who don’t.

Poetry In Ink

2011-10-31T18:14:00.001-07:00

2011-10-30T23:24:00.001-07:00

Forgive me for appearing wounded, fragile and open. It's probably because I am wounded, fragile and open. Just hug me. That's what I need. <3

Flashbacks and Managing Me

2011-10-27T09:42:00.001-07:00

There is so much I am accepting and allowing to be uncovered. There are many secrets I've held for a very long time, about the terror I carry beneath a spirit that has come a long way into understanding love. I have worn a stoic mask of a survivor, and while my strength holds no limits, I am, for the first time, embracing, speaking and allowing the aftermath to live.

There is a shame in carrying shame. There's a pressure to wear a face that all is together and intact in the category of normal. It's a double paned glass with a shattered layer. I'm starting to remove the pieces. I'm beginning to remove the fear of all the pieces falling at once.

To live a life of not facing severe trauma is exhausting. To constantly have band aids lain on it and directed to carry the blame has left me existing in a state of carrying wounds that can never completely heal.

This week has been a week of really facing where I am, and what I am capable of handling and dealing with. It's been a week of understanding that my arms don't stretch as far as I think they do. It's a week of understanding how exhausted I really am emotionally.

I have had to define and understand my episodes, put them in perspective and deal with them on a whole different level of understanding. When I flashed back on Monday, where suddenly I was seeing in my mind's eye, pictures of infants being beaten for crying, and mothers holding their hands over babies mouths as they gasped for breath, I thought that shaking my head as I normally do to scatter the images away, would be enough.

But it wasn't.

Because that night was filled with the vivid, horrible dreams, and by the time I woke up Tuesday, I was dysfunctional.

It is the one time, that I can say, I feel alone. Most times, I shut away alone, and the despair takes me under.

This last episode has me re-evaluating my emotional support system. I am coming to understand that I need to re-evaluate some of my coping methods.

My solace came in a friend who decided to take the time to Google Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Flashbacks. She read up on how to manage episodes and promptly came over. It was important that I be soothed, to be surrounded by soft light, soft food, soft touch, and acceptance, to be held and allowed to flow the emotion. I was in no position to sooth myself. I couldn't get up off of the bed or stop sobbing. I sobbed so much my ribs ached.

I couldn’t get the images out of my mind, not the images of what my childhood had seen, nor the images of the dreams that followed nor the deep emotion that was being pushed up by the memory surfacing. The sadness that was flowing through me had me completely overwhelmed. I felt the sadness of another person on one of the days, which intensified my grief.

My support friend brought chocolate mousse and caramel apples and a warm bottle of rum. She said "Let's watch a funny movie!" and we put in Steal Magnolias. She wrapped me in a blanket and together we cuddled on the couch. I realized that this was the first time in my life, that I had a friend who understood my deepest needs. I realized she was the only one who had taken the time to research what it was exactly that I needed. It was both comforting and clarifying. It was both saddening and a huge relief.

I realize more than ever, that I have to better prepare for what I'm doing. I came to a deep understanding this weekend, that it is time for me to separate and delicately manage my surroundings as I push through to finish this novel.

I set up a system with my support friend, that when I am going to dig into certain traumatic parts of my book, that I'll set those portions for Thursday or Friday, so she will be available on the weekend to manage my care should I be thrown into ptsd again. Since the pattern is that every time I write them, it triggers a flashback, I now can adjust myself to utilize tools to help me through the moments. I am so grateful that she is willing to support me. It is exactly the support I need, and I have not been able to find it.

for now, I'm on day three of recovery, and I am just able to turn on the overhead bedroom light and allow my eyes to feel artificial lighting for a bit. for now, I'm managing the hypersensitivity and getting it down to a point where I can at least go to the grocery store. for now, I am managing me.

for now, I'm pulled into hibernation, and I need this hiatus. I know what I have to do. I hope I have the strength to finish it.

Drowning

2011-10-25T16:24:00.001-07:00

the mask is slipping,
tie it tight around my neck,
choke the sobs back,
gotta keep my face intact.

the tears are escaping,
suck my breath inside my chest,
the night terrors return,
because I dug in and wrote again.

I'm drowning without a vest,
I'm feeling lost inside the emptiness,
cant seem to find the shore,
caught inside this tumultuous drift.

I'm a girl without a friend,
love me when I'm smiling bright,
turn away, I turn out the lights,
and enter into my own personal fright night.

I understand.
I wouldn't want to be around me either,
constantly fighting demons,
I'm lost in between their teeth and smothering.

I could dig a cavern and bury deep,
being bitten in the pit
of all the secrets I keep,
I am dying from the poison as I sink.

they say poetry can cleanse the soul,
but it doesn't pay the bills,
and I can't seem to get out of this hole,
or even attempt to deal.

I have pillows stained from screaming,
sheets alive with orgasmic angst,
and I cannot control the seeping,
or the overflowing pain.

This is not depression, this is reality,
this is not despair, this is needing to know why,
I feel like I am going to die,
even when I smile.

Maybe it's just today; maybe tomorrow changes,
Maybe the memories scatter away,
and a miracle will arrive, where I never have to see,
the look in their eyes, like the one in mine.

but today, I'm shedding the horrific dreams,
images of bleeding babies sucking breath,
and mothers in the snow filled grass,
with emblems of God on their chest.

pushing me to jump inside the swirling water,
I am a soul without a father, but
have you ever stopped to ask
if I even know how to swim?

~vennie~

Dying on the Vine

2011-10-25T13:51:00.001-07:00

I feel so incredibly alone right now. I am drowning in emotions and situations, and meanwhile, all of my friends are living their lives, unnoticed and without time for me. I am sad beyond reason, that I seem to give when they need it, but as I sit here, curled in a ball crying, I am alone.

I am falling into a place that has me terrified. I am trying to finish writing a novel that insights nightmares and moments of uncontrollable crying, and I am doing it alone with little to no support emotionally, physically or financially. I woke up today from the most horrible nightmare of babies dying and bleeding, and I not one of my friends answers the phone in a moment I just need to hear a soothing voice. Yet they all seem to want to know when the book's going to be finished.

I am at a point of giving up, and I am walking this solitary path while everyone who says they love me seems to be obliviously living their lives. I don't know how to explain that I am literally hanging on by a thread which I feel could break at any moment, and my strength is quickly waning. I put on a normal face, but inside I am dying, and I don't know if I have the strength to finish this.

The Trees Speak. I Listen.

2011-10-14T21:39:00.001-07:00

I am a channeler of the trees. In the early 90's, I discovered the Ogham, and I have been one with it ever since. I have always been deeply rooted in my Celtic heritage from the time I got to discover it.

From the moment I was gifted The Celtic Tree Oracle A System of Divination by Liz and Colin Murray, I was immediately bonded with these cards. This Divination System requires that the seeker ask a specific question. The seeker chooses the cards themselves, turning them over, and the seer writes down the cards in specific patterning. The Seer then interprets the cards using a reference manual giving in depth insight into each tree. I have never asked the trees a question myself. I have always only answered the questions of seekers.

That is until tonight.

Tonight, the box called to me, and I answered.

I asked the question, "Am I supposed to finish Cult Child by the end of November?"

The thing about the trees is they don't just give short answers. No, the trees come with messages from the wind, and they always come full circle. The trees always start at the beginning and close at the end. They leave nothing unanswered. Even the questions we don’t speak aloud.

First they explained to me from whence I came, struggling like the ivy vines through many dark crevices, reaching towards the light. I come from hidden knowledge, that which is the sea and moon, and I tend to feel most at home near these two elements. I am from poplar, where the wind speaks with great strength.

The trees advised that I needed to focus on some very serious matters that have to do with self. Firstly, I must focus on shedding my old ways, releasing any selfish intent. They spoke to me of my health and staying focused on my physical body. As free will always wins out, they reminded me that everything I do is a choice, and that it is I who has allowed my spirit to be thrown off kilter, by the choices that I have made.

"Listen to your body. She is the divine feminine. Listen to her rhythms and her dreams." The trees whispered to me.

And they spoke to me about my voice; what I allow to leave my lips in words. They reminded me to make my words have direction; to speak my reality into being, and to concentrate on the spiritual rather than the physical. They suggested chastity, to go into my feminine, and allow her to be pure. April 2012 is to be a month of big changes, it seems.

"Listen to your poetic intuition. Meditate. Remember to call your corners. Speak to the Goddess Brigid. Shed your old ways and watch your thoughts." The affirmations just kept coming, the more I listened to my beloved trees.

Finally, the trees spoke to me of my core, of the strand which holds my being together. I have the ability to see clearly, over great distances, from exactly where I stand. I do what I do purely because I know that I must. Monetary gain has never been my driving force. I create and push forward because I must, because my spirit demands it and because if I do not, I don’t feel like I’m being me. They advised that I will be secure and strong in my pursuits. Again, they spoke to me of chastity, of pulling away from physical desires and focusing in on my own determinations.

Twice in the reading, the tree interpretations began with November, the beginning of my new year.

I am affirmed in what I need to do.

The choice is mine.

Tonight the trees confirmed it.

Memories

2011-10-04T10:46:00.001-07:00

I asked once if the memories would ever return.
She asked me if I wanted them.
I shuddered.

There are five,
one tied in a chair,
the others, belts and showers,
being tickled on laps
where hard objects poked my back,

and there, Cascadias flew.
picking me up I spiraled looking down, and
I watched the terror in surround sound.

"No," I replied. "Keep them.
I'll retrieve them when I get to heaven."

It's an angry ride,
somewhere between live, die and survive,
where darkness continually
chips away at the light.

They say that hell rides
in chariots with gleaming eyes.
I say it lives in the hands of every man
who pushes his way
between a child's thighs.

Shocking it seems,
to be this undone,
to let the words out
in whispers instead of shouts.

Don't cover your ears
or live in fear of truths,
there are thousands of them
just like you.

I see what fuels the wicked,
the absence of forgiveness
and the forgotten purpose
where hunger replaces thirst.

"Sometimes being a warrior
feels like death." She said.
"Like the words never reach their head,
until their souls are dead."

The pictures arrive like gradients,
as I shake and scatter
like etch-e-sketches.

Sometimes peace comes in forgiveness.
Sometimes it comes in revenge,
but everything comes full circle
when we finally arrive at the end.

Mercy comes in knowing,
that they carry the memories instead
when the tears turned to liquid
on an angel's haloed head.

There's comfort in the distance
with the images in the fray.
They chase me down like ghosts,
as I scramble to get away.

Memories float like diamonds
leaving blood stains in the mine,
and I am left to wonder
what the past has left behind.

~vennie~

copyright @ dbv publishing 2011

Slow Whiskey Death

2011-09-17T18:05:00.001-07:00

My brother is dying,
and I am watching his demise.
It is a slow decline
into whiskey and silence,
the pills and the denial,
and I
am heartbroken.

Little boy never stood a chance,
never got a glance
from a mother who
took him from a father;
we have lived life like
scattering chameleons,
"watch the masses,
then act like them."

he has numbed
and succumbed to the
bitter pain
let it sing its refrain
into the alcoholic bottle,
running full throttle
towards a casket
of disaster.

Intervention they say,
but I think it's too late,
the blood coughs up
morning time,
make an excuse,
last night's dinner wasn't
all the way cooked
reason after reason,
it's the dying season.

I shun the bitter angst,
he didn't deserve this,
and we
didn't ask for it;
that life has resorted to this;
it's a poisoned kiss,
inside a hopeful wish.

he said maybe
he'll sleep good;
maybe won't wake up;
maybe might let the ashes
fill a cup
wanna be taken to the Sound
have them scattered around
on sand dunes
while the sea whistles a tune
of welcome.

I'm unafraid of reality,
what I carry inside me,
burns like thunder,
cries like rain,
and I'm dancing
with the Devil again.

It's a solitary path
where hands brush my skin,
can't let them dive in
to where the demons live;
because my brother is dying,
and I'm just trying,
to hold strings together.

~vennie~

A Little Bit of Musical Me

2011-09-10T01:31:00.001-07:00

Some of my original songs and some covers…

Remembering

2011-08-28T13:26:00.001-07:00

Today, I sit in quiet meditation. It is a day of cleaning, going through things, getting rid of and purging. I get distracted easily. I find a book I haven't read in a while, thumbing through the pages eagerly, searching words to rejuvenate my spirit.

I find them.

I question. I search. I explain. I over analyze. I contemplate, and sometimes worry. I reach out. I retract and pull back. I am shifting. I am moving.

I am understanding shifts are sometimes necessary. Shifts are shakes of remembering.

The voice whispers. "Remember your purpose."

I smile through misted eyes. My Angel Guide ever softly in my ear. Urging me.

"Stop being so human."

"But I am human!" I persist. The argument is ever present. I struggle through the dimensions. I search for balance in the fray.

"Remind me again." I plead to the mirror. "Remind of the place from which I came."

I breathe in sage. It cleanses me. Release. The wind rises, wrapping angst in it's murmur. I exhale as it sweeps through me.

I lay in the grass and gaze the clouds. They are wispy feathers against the blue. I wish for the quiet to never end.

I wonder how scarred one has to become before it all completely hardens. I know what happens to the love when it does.

I am like fountains and pennies. I am the wishes of unspoken sadness, absorbed from the momentary touches of strangers who appear as friends. I carry it skillfully, a tear filled sponge. I wring the weeping into the sea.

I am pure spirit form.

but only when I'm not human.

~v~

Tragedy’s Laughing Gas

2011-08-16T23:05:00.001-07:00

sometimes I think I
need the heartbreak,
just so I can cry.

sometimes it's excruciating
being the strong one
on my knees,
they say
"you see?
she's not unbreakable."

oh, fools,
i've been broken all along.
in your haste to
shove me onto
a pedestal
you just didn't
take the time to notice.

I sit in the aftermath,
of tragedy's laughing gas,
staring at mirrored walls,
like a blink or a smile
will relieve it for a while.

I have been conditioned.

I am deprogramming.

sometimes the tears
don't come so easy,
i push them,
barely breathing,
as the breeze
steals their possibility,
and I am left
in a desert of reality.

I hold no regret
with being open.
I hold no angst
with laying my heart
against the guillotine
to have the chance
to touch one soul.

sometimes i listen
just to absorb a little more,
let it melt its way
down to the core
where the raindrops
laugh and avoid
spilling into the sea.

I am a woman
with a thousand
lifetimes of history
flowing through me
like watered down
mercury.

if you don't
choose to see me,
I can't carry the blame,
and if you choose
to abuse me,
I won't carry the shame.

Absolute Love

2011-08-10T00:41:00.001-07:00

I've tried to get her to wear this skirt all summer.

"Put on this skirt, Bella!" I've urged her.

"No!" She emphatically replies. "I don't like that skirt!"

It's a long, khaki skirt down to her ankles. She doesn't like to wear it because she said she can't run in it. I don't push the issue. The skirt has stayed in the closet all summer.

Bella goes to Nana Shelley's to play. Nana Shelley babysat her daddy when he was a little boy. Bella meets new friends; girls whose mommy named them all M names like Madison and Miley and Melissa.

Today, before she goes to Nana Shelley's she dresses herself.

"YaYa, I want to wear that skirt." She says, pointing to the long, khaki skirt.

I pull it from the hanger, and hand it to her along with the burgundy button up she has chosen to wear with it. I fix her hair and drop her off at Shelley’s to play for the day.

When I return, she is sitting coloring with her friend. I finally get to meet the little girl Bella is always urgently wanting to go play with. They are sweet, side by side, markers in hand, creating purple haired Strawberry Shortcake characters in the book. This little Bella friend who also has on a long skirt down to her ankles.

"They're Pentecostal." Nana Shelley explains in a low whisper. "She has to wear skirts all of the time."

My heart surges as I look at Bella, who is wearing a skirt she doesn't like, just so her friend won't be the only one in a long skirt down to her ankles. I realize how amazing this child is, how kind and aware she is of others, to the point that she will put herself in clothing she dislikes so her friend will feel good.

I learn so much from this child. Today she taught me the meaning of absolute love.