Long Thrived Poems
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Life carried on brushing up pain
Each day I could hardly remain
Darkness seemed to be my only course
As I falter and enter ultimate remorse
I could not see what's going on before me
As life seemed dim I could hardly see
There only seemed to be one way out
Only one that I have known about
Sleeping pills were taken extremely
All at once, I was feeling sleepy
In a last minute impulse I called emergency
They swiftly came as I was quickly
Fading fast from this course of reality
I was nodding off to sleep completely
They kept me barely awake to the hospital
Where I was contorted to spill all
I was gagged forcefully as darkness came
Awakened again to find more pills taken
My throat agonized with pain within
From the horrible gagging motion
Pill after pill flowed out of my mouth
As I neared closer to oblivion, further south
Finally I was allowed to sleep
My dreams now were mine to keep
When I awoke people surrounded me
Looking very worried, disappointed really
I had survived the attempt on my life
A fear I will always remember, the strife
Now the world is back into my life again
The pain is seemingly always pounding within
Worry is written all over my family
Fear escapes my mother’s eyes completely
They do many tests to see if I’m stable
Then the diagnosis is depression, certifiable
Therapists become a part of my new life
All present and accounted for, no new strife
Things weren’t anywhere near like they were
When everything was dark, fearful for sure
I hated life, it was lifeless, demure
Then it seemed I had the perfect cure
But life chose me, and I survived
Now things work simply and I thrived
I had the presence to make the best
Of what life brings, to take in the rest
I hold dear now all things that this life brings
A warm feeling comes when fear is fleeting
A perfect happiness comes from simplicity
Bringing complexity down to earth sincerely
Love came swiftly with joy in the heart
Never felt more pure, never to be torn apart
Now that I had survived the brush of death
I now take pleasure in each and every breath
This is what happens sometimes when death knocks
And life gets switched around, time tick-tocks
Now since the terror has come and gone
Joy and pleasure have arrived as one
The future now looks a lot greater
Now that death will be a lot later
Russell Sivey
Entrant into Richard Tarr's "suicide survivor" contest
11/12/2012
i never knew one person could have so many emotions
inside them at one time.
i never knew how easily hate could fill the empty void
where love once thrived.
i never knew that lying got the world would make a difference.
i never knew that hurting me could help you.
i never knew that lovers make good fighters.
i never knew that the best of friends make the best of enemies.
i never knew that abstinence led to betrayal.
i never knew that distance makes the heart grow fonder.
i never knew that all our friends were just my friends, not yours.
i never knew how pathetic you were.
i never knew i just needed a stronger man.
i never knew i could be so unhappy.
i never knew how many hours it would take to build a tree house.
i never knew how quickly i could want to burn it down.
i never knew how badly i could want to tear my bike to shreds.
i never knew how much i could want my house to fall to pieces because you
helped build it.
i never knew that one man could destroy me so.
i never knew that the one man i loved was a s----y enough of a person to lie to me
about something so serious.
i never knew that the one person who brought out the best in me would
eventually bring out the worst.
i never knew that looking at pictures of happy times would make me so angry.
i never knew that watching my kitten sleep would one day make me cry.
i never knew that you could lie to my face and not feel guilty about tit.
i never knew how much i needed my friends.
i never knew that i could ever dislike 4-wheeler rides.
i never knew that i could hate going into the campers or the building for anything.
i never knew that i could eat a whole thing of ice cream by myself.
i never knew that i would cry myself to sleep several nights over a lie.
i never thought that i wouldn't be able to cars without crying, or ever come to a
point where i actually didn't want to watch the Notebook.
i never knew that i could hate snow patrols "chasing cars" so much that it would
make me cry.
i never knew that we could be apart for so long and yet your still ruining things for
me.
i never knew that you could have the nerve to bug for a second chance.
i'm not saying i regret it , because i don't.
It's just i know now.
And there's no way in h---- i'm going back.
Form:
“i’m only happy when it rains,”
moans shirley manson when she’s backed by
butch vig & an orchestra of overdubbed
distorted guitars enhanced by sythensizers
a la trent reznor
the genius who is credited in garbage’s first album---
one doesn’t have to be a meteorologist to
think that she & her crew may be on to
something---
for the rain washes all the dirt away
the rain replenishes the earth so that it can sustain another day
when damaged endlessly by the
cruel
sun
scorching its surface & all the living things upon it
(during the spring and summer months especially, when all the idiots are
running round with nothing on & with no sunscreen, etc. to fend off
melanoma)---
the rain is what those unconventional people who
dwell in the shadows
feast on---
and who are these people?
they are the ones that choose not to smile when
everyone else does---
they are the ones that are not easily
amused---
they/we
are the ones that run out in the rainstorm &
dance naked in the cold wetness---
whipping our hair around in a rhythmic gesture
a middle finger in the air to any kind of
“creator”
that would shine its face down upon us all and
communicate
destruction with the poker face of
peace---
give us the rain when it comes
give us the floods
the hurricanes
the torrential downpour that accompanies it all
so that on the days that we aren’t struggling to swim
& struggling to float amidst the chaos
we understand how fortunate we are
to even be breathing---
so that our ever-complaining selves
die with the remnants of the wash-away
& you & i can wave goodbye to the old
selves
who thrived only for sun &
smiles
not understanding that in this pubic hair of a moment in which each of us
spend
together
on this beautiful planet
avec all the other plants & creatures who dwell with us,
that
we must savor every second
be it in sun or rain
and let it be known that the rain does so much for us
and yet is always pelted with insults & “evil” metaphor---
rain,
my friends,
is getting the bad rap---
and i don’t think i stand alone on the sideline campaigning---
there are thousands, albeit it
millions
marching for the rain to come
and keep our civilization
quenched---
news flash: without good ol’ h20 we are all dead as
doornails---
so stop worshipping the sun
&
give it up for the
rain.
two wee lads grew up in the same village---
with their houses only a short distance away
they became close friends at an early age
playing the same sports, both learning how to
play an instrument, stumbling through early flirtations with
girls & even pondering their prospective futures---
theirs was an unparalleled bromance.
upon the eve of their high school graduation,
one of the young men decided that he wanted to go to school for
marketing---
he wanted to go to school to study what he thought was a lucrative field
so that he would
sooner than later
be rolling in the benjamins---
because, with mucho benjamins came mucho power
and with mucho power came mucho women---
this all made sense to an 18 year old who had
only one thing on his mind.
the other young man was passionate
he was far too passionate to take on the business world
or to involve himself with anything
lucrative at all---
he took it upon himself to pursue his painting
with a few pit stops in other countries along the way
scrapping & meeting new people
meeting more new people & scrapping further.
and while one idea followed a distinct plan
with a definable conclusion in sight,
the other path functioned without any direction
whatsoever &
the very absence of expectation
during the whole of his travels
made the way of the second young man’s life
seemingly much more interesting than the
first’s.
over the years the two individuals lost touch as things
go---
the first graduated college, began working for a big firm,
got married & moved out to the west coast---
the second went the other direction, overseas,
never rooting anywhere for more than a bit of time.
years went by
as years do,
and in time the marketing man climbed the ladder---
his dwelling grew in size
his brood multiplied
and all seemed well in happytown.
the other, whose legs continued to cross
borders, but whose pockets never really jingled much,
he continued, without expectation.
the man with the big house &
the large family &
the jingling pockets
had planned every step so succinctly
that it seemed nothing could fail,
as each individual part thrived on the
greater monolith,
working together from within---
but at age 40 he was killed in a plane crash
with the rest of his family.
the second man kept on traveling,
he kept on painting &
he continues to
expecting nothing from this life.
They were hated, berated, and degraded They were demoted, denied, and deprived
They were traded like livestock and treated worst than animals They were a people detained, renamed, and reduced to property
They were displaced, disgraced, disrespected, and disenfranchised They were captured, chained, and maimed; battered, beaten, and bruised
If we were one of them, how would we feel? How would we deal?
How would we heal? How would we then live?
I am saddened by their slavery, but I am inspired by their bravery. When I pause, I discover the magic of a mystery.
I clearly see virtues hidden in their tragic history. I am touched when I sense a 'virtue in their vision'.
They knew that, even if erased without a trace, they had a past. They experienced sorrow but managed the madness of their present.
Me think that their "Tomorrow in the distance" launched their untouchable souls. Though bowed and broken, they visualized tomorrow and paid the
painful toll. Me think that they saw a vision of me in the distant future living happy and free. Me think that they decried the mirrors that painted their
darkened spirit and defied the demons of misery. How else could they have survived their dehumanized plight and thrived as enslaved human beings?
Written061807; Condensed and posted to PS 02262018
Black History Month 2018
(An Abenaki Legend)
Prologue...
After the reptile people had been devoured by fire, ice and flood, Kloskurbeh the ever creating Spirit, sighed, and thought about the worlds he had made across the multiverse, how his breathe had brought life to so many beings. Layers and layers of reality seeded into existence, but many had failed to hear his voice and in the end they had withered.
Legend...
One day in the Dawn Land
a boy came walking.
Many times the boy passed through me
without seeing
eventually I placed a question into his heart.
The boy explained to himself
that he had been born
when the foam and spume
of the sea were heated by the sun.
The next dawn, a girl appeared -
she explained
that she had come from the earth,
a green plant had bore her as fruit.
Time passed, the Dawn children
found each other and rushed to
be together, many morning babes where born,
and by the works of their hands and minds
they thrived.
Then hard times came (as they always must).
Famine came, meat was hard to find.
The mother could no longer feed her children
and she despaired.
I saw all this,
I prayed to Sophia the Great Womb Mother -
for yes even I am created from woman
and all souls are thus female.
I knew also that Nature once seeded, must not be
altered by any good intentions.
The woman ran to the river
wanting to drown her sorrows, the waters rose,
almost submerged she cried out
to whom she knew not what.
Then as her tears flowed, between her legs
green shoots came forth, she felt them, then wadded
back to the river bank to see.
Looking upon this miracle the woman had a vision.
She returned to her mate, and demanded that he
kill her and plant her bones in two piles.
Horrified he objected, but she explained her vision to him.
She insisted, so it was done.
For forty moons her partner stood over her bones
and sorrowed much.
Then one morning the piles sprouted plants.
one was maize the other root tubers.
The Great Mother had seeded Her ‘Will be Done’
upon the soul of the earth.
To this day children are fed by the Earth Mother
and the dark womb of Sophia
where all light and nourishment emanates.
The Algonquin people (after a good catch),
still bury a fish in the fields to honor, I Kloskurbeh
and my Great Mother.
In ancient land,
—A realm of kings and queens,
A tale of courage, sacrifice, and love, unfolds unseen.
A noble hunter,
—Moremi, with heart of lion’s might,
Became the cherished queen of Oduduwa’s ancient light.
The kingdom thrived
—In commerce, wealth, and sacred power,
But shadows crept from darkened woods, in haunting hour.
The Ugbo hordes,
—With raffia guise, brought terror to the fray,
And women, children, borne away, in night, by fear were swayed.
A desperate plea,
—A mother's heart, to save her cherished land,
To river goddess, wise and old, Moremi did command:
"Great spirit!
Hear my humble cry!
I vow to pay the cost!
If by your hand, my people's fate, from doom, is not yet lost."
A plan was forged,
—A daring scheme, to free the stolen kin,
The queen, in beauty, as a lure, her freedom to rescind.
Within the Ugbo king's dark realm,
—She learned their secret ways,
A wary smile, a whispered oath, for freedom's dawning days.
Her essence strong, her courage true,
—She made her daring flight,
Back to her love, her cherished home, to face the coming fight.
With wisdom gleaned,
—And heart of fire, she armed her faithful kin,
To face the Ugbo hosts in battle, a victory to win.
The kingdom's wrath,
—Like storm released, did vanquish cruel Ugbo raid,
And in the aftermath of strife, a people stood, remade.
A nation forged in Moremi's flame,
—Her love and sacrifice,
An epic tale of ancient days, where honour paid the price.
Yet, fate's cruel hand still lingered near,
—A debt yet left to claim,
For in the halls of ancient gods, great vows remain the same.
To Esimirin's flowing depths,
—The queen did journey forth,
A mother's tears, a broken heart, the cost of love, and worth.
Her son, her only cherished child,
—The spirit's price, now due,
A sacrifice, in times of old, as gods and mortals drew.
Moremi's song of courage,
—Love, and tears for love foresworn,
Echoes through the ages past, a tale of Yoruba born.
In halls of legend,
—Where heroes dwell, and tales of valour shine,
The queen of courage, heart of gold, eternal shall enshrine.
Moremi, mother, lover, queen,
—Thy name shall never fade,
For in thy sacrifice and love, a nation's soul was made.
part 1 of 2
Annick (my 28 year old sister) came down to NYC, from Boston, for a day visit. It was one of those warm, cerulean days between Christmas and New Years. Annick’s in a surgical residence, in a pandemic, but still somehow, she got away.
We’re dining on a shaded, outdoor, sundeck - I arrived first, by a moment but then the elevator opened and Annick emerged, looking like a model - familiar but I don’t know - more completely adult - more than ever like my mom. It was all I could do not to weep for happiness when we hugged.
After that long hug, Annick gave my clothes a slow, censorious looking-over. When my mom and I shopped for “school clothes” last year, in Paris, I bought some stunning designer (Anna Molinari) clothes - only to find out they were completely out of place at Yale. Now they’re sentenced to a trunk under my bed and my replacement clothes are from FatFace and Patagonia.
I’ve been dressing to disappear but I wanted her to see a “new me.” How I’ve survived in a rough, academic country - not just survived - but thrived. I also wanted her to think her sister was beautiful and hoped I didn’t seem too strange. She cupped my chin - just like my mom does - “You look wonderful,” she said.
Annick mentioned we’d have company for lunch but she was alone - then this tall, fair-haired, man was with us. He slipped his arm around Annick’s waist and they smiled, together. I’d never met one of Annick's boyfriends before so this was a little disconcerting - part of me wanted to pull her away and say, “MINE!”
Annick made the introductions, “Anais, this is Gerard - Gerard, Anais.” Gerard leaned into la bise then half hugged me, patting me bearishly on the back. I decided he was too tall and too handsome and began to examine him for flaws.
He wore a dark-charcoal-gray cashmere suit with a light-gray oxford-cloth shirt. “Are you always so dapper?” I asked? “I wanted to look substantial,” he said, with a very slight French accent. He held me at arm’s length. “You’re definitely sisters,” he said, smiling.
We settled in. At first we were a little stilted with each other, uncertain how to best introduce ourselves. Annick said that Gerard is a “Child Neurologist.” “Funny,” I said, “you look older.” and he laughed. I was warming to him.
Back in seventeen eighty-one
The revolution hit hard times,
Britain had taken Charlestown
And at Camden had crushed the lines
Of General Horatio Gates,
Leaving nobody to resist,
Except the Swamp Fox Marion
Who alone was able to persist.
South Carolina had fallen,
And Cornwallis was marching north,
The patriots had to stop him,
But could not yet match up with his force.
So they called up Daniel Morgan,
A brawler who had earned his fame
With his actions at Saratoga,
As a soldier he knew the game.
He was sent to march out westwards,
To harass and gain new supplies,
Cornwallis worried about this,
Let Banastre Tarleton fly.
Tarleton was a cavalry fame,
His infamy now widely known,
He’d butchered his foes at Waxhams,
When upwards their hands had been thrown.
The patriots called him Butcher,,
‘Bloody Bann’ was his sobriquet,
Yet many feared the young colonel,
From his legion they would run away.
But General Morgan knew all this,
He was pragmatic in his approach,
Knew what his men could and couldn’t do,
Where they thrived, where they were laid low.
Knowing Tarleton was close by,
He found a spot called ‘Hannah’s Cowpens,’
Nearby the flooded Broad River,
Here all tradition he’d upend.
Knowing militia ended to flee,
And not face a hand-to-hand fight,
He put their backs to the river,
They couldn’t run to escape their plight.
Now they would fight, or they would die,
But he felt this wasn’t enough,
So he split his force into three lines,
Plotting an elaborate bluff.
If the first he put sharp-shooters,
Told them to shoot ‘Epaulet Men,’
Then set up local militias
To form a line just behind them.
And the back were Continentals,
Tried soldiers of many a year,
These he knew didn’t break and run,
They were the few the British feared.
To top it off he arranged them
All on the slopes of a small hill,
Then waited there for Tarleton
Who expected an easy kill.
Tarleton had seen it all before,
At Charlestown and Camden field,
These rebels could talk a good game,
But in a fight they’d run of they’d yield.
So when he spotted Morgan’s force
He did not bother to survey,
Bold and young, he rushed in headlong
Expecting the militia to break...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Let us write something now
About the Kings before which we bow
Of the things we say as we vow
In those large mansions of lights
As we sell off our life rights
In submission to freedom of pain
That mounts day after day; again and again.
Let us speak out our mind
These always shall remind
Us of,
The insults we tolerated
When,with assaulters we cooperated
Covering up for their wrong
That our stay in their custody we would prolong.
Talk of how we left our jobs to be wives
Yet we struggled to escape from knives
Sat on the cold floor, trying to wipe away our tears
While the nourishment of our weakness thrived into our fears
We gave birth to children that became baits
That kept us wrapped round our husband's fingers.
Even so,we never got our respect
We waited for a new beginning while they slept
We tried to talk to them and were trashed
And the remains of our love were splashed
Like the thin soils onto which rainwater drips
Like the pain a hurt leg bears as it leaps
Through the thorns and pins
With the pain cutting deep through our skins.
The church rules we complied with
We walked the walks of old Smith
By bending low to culture
To keep our dreams from the cruel rapture
When the chiefs would disregard us
And send us off the village with just one ass
To a land they named elsewhere,
Where our power would be claimed by Blaire
Till we ceased to exist in actual sense
Like you even ever did.
Through writing it here on paper,
We are not condemning them
But bringing to their understanding how it hurts
To be yelled at, ignored,battered;
And enslaved or hurt in summary.
How unfair it is to live in a monopoly
With only our men making rules for us to follow
And calling us wicked and aduleters when we say anything.
We've been silent from the day of our vows
Because not even our inlaws or parents believed us.
That's why we have to pen it here
That our darling sunshines can read it
As they grow and look towards our seats
Which are ablaze and not pleasant to take rest on.
To our dear men,
We want you to change and
Handle us like your promises said
Ts all we ask of you
For the tears are drying us up
And our words no longer count
Because you have deprived us of our courage.