Just One Left Over Tear

sometimes very old memories mix like paint and spill on the canvas of today without our even realizing it. They just become a poem fashioned of the threads of yesterday.

Once
when I was as young and vulnerable
as spring
I ran headlong down the highways
of the cacophony of my confusion;
I climbed the southern mossy trees
of a tangled terror.
I ran with wild abandon through the doors
of sanctuary and sacrament
burying my face in the black folds of a priest’s
robe of piety, that hid the penis of a man....
Wrapping myself in the illusion of safety
born in the cloistered cradle of antiquity
and grown into the pious rigidity
of the first century church.
I stayed there and strangled myself
with the strings of a borrowed guitar
until lyrics spilled
rupturing forth like my mother oozing blood and death
all over a strangers carpet.
The frantic fingers of my plucking hand,
courageous and callused played on
until healing came spilling song...
An old priest, the ancient mossy trees,
a rupturing mother, and memories that cling
to link and emerge
in one left over tear down the highway of years.

Reviews

[[untitled]]

There is a lot to this. A lot. It is very well written and even though there is a lot within few words ... none of it became tangled or confused. Excellent imagery.

[Emily B]

For what it's worth I understood the image concerning the priest. It made perfect sense to me.

Thank goodness for that one leftover tear.

[WritefromtheHeart]

Oh Mystic--I have missed reading your poetry and hope to be finished with my story editing and such and be back here to enjoy the Cafe.

I am SO glad I came here today on my lunch break and read this poem...from your pen, your words, I find beauty in the pain for you captured your experiences, laced them with, as you say, "poetic license and metaphor" and presented here a feast of words.

I am moved more than I can say.

[mysticgmekeepr]

just to clarify...there was no abuse involved here, and I wasn't a child, at least not in a physical sense. My reference was to the priests being a man rather than a savior...it was poetic license and metaphor. Poetry is born from fragments of the writers experience or the experience of someone else... but rarely should it be taken literally. Poetry is metaphor, imagery, magic and mystery, mixed with the spices of an individuals truth.
THe most literal part of this poem was that my mother's throat did rupture from cancer and she did bleed to death in front of my eyes on a strangers carpet....and at one time I did climb the southern mossy trees and seek solace in the branches of their outstretched arms.

This is a very powerful poem! I have to agree I can't imagine what it would be like to be abused by a trusted member of my life. Very good poem!

[Valentine]

Oh wow, I can't even imagine what it would be like to be abuse by someone you trusted as a child and have that memory stay with you for life..Life I say because I was shown another kind of abuse as a child and as a wife and that still caquses nightmares..God bless and be whole..Valentine

[Your Tasty Field Adviso..]

this poem should be reviewed more often, because it's written very well. the feelings within this poem is very strong and very meaningfull. i love how you put ur whole life within this poem right there for everyone to read and then show the pain that u felt just from growing up. you wrote a great poem.