Therese Bacha Poet Prose Poetry

The Power To Write

If I don't write 
I wouldn't exist, 
so I put my words 
in action. 

I ran and opened the 
French doors 
and for an instant, 
I imagined I could hear 
the church bells ringing 
tolling beneath the surface 
of the wild Ocean. 

A single fisherman stood 
waist deep with his rod 
trying to catch a fish 
for his lunch, only to be 
surrounded by the cold 
gusty wind blowing enough 
to freeze the church bells 
from continuing to toll loud 
enough for me to hear them. 

Suddenly they stopped 
when I felt the air was 
crisp and salty 
through that late afternoon, 
time for the sun 
of that same morning 
going down, 
sparkling 
as the electric lights. 

For some reason which 
I could not reveal to myself 
why I became unhappy, 
or maybe insecure, 
tired, pale, maybe unselfish 
or unsympathetic with myself, 
all those feelings ran 
through my whole existence 
as I could not verify 
my thinking. 
I looked rough for once in 
my past years. 

Suddenly the dangerous 
calm was gone. 
It had been replaced 
by the white clouds 
that reminded me 
of my wedding dress, 
as a shadow hidden 
behind me, in me, 
in front of me running 
away from my permanently 
changed soul. 

After sitting for hours I felt 
maddened by thirst, 
it hurt badly as I remained 
in isolation, dazed, blinded, 
deafened, having no liquid, 
or food for hours. 

OH! How badly I needed 
to forget about my soul, 
feeling like a burning bush 
suffering for so many years 
in secret. 

Growing up I mastered 
into adolescence 
an obsessive image, 
a place that can seem to me 
somehow an extension 
of myself. 
My children. 

Terry 
12/8/2016

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