Personally Balanced
If I were sweeter water still
And not some brackish brine,
If I were only whippoorwill
And not a herd of swine,
If I were only oak and ash
And never knotty pine,
If I were only lakes and trees
And not a deep coal mine,
Then I would lack the bass-er notes
That swell the symphony,
And I would even lack the pain
And tears of sympathy;
My life would only be so flat—
No room for empathy,
And I would—perfectly dull—
Not have much company!
(C) 5 January 1991, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Who Are You? Me!!
Who Are You? Me!!
Dark, deep swirling in the river of my soul,
Sucking whirlpool and crashing wave.
How I’ve longed to trace you and
The devilish pain you gave,
But I never could quite discover
Even who you were, you knave.
Struggle, strive, stretch, searching,
Desperate to find relief,
In every nook and cranny,
Turning over each stone and leaf;
I hounded you to dispatch you—
To rest finally was my belief.
Who are you, my constant companion,
Who I fear, hate, yet long to see?
You outwit me, and you mock me,
Yet you fit me to a tee.
I hate you now I love you.
How dare you be me!
(C) 5 January 1991, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.
Dark, deep swirling in the river of my soul,
Sucking whirlpool and crashing wave.
How I’ve longed to trace you and
The devilish pain you gave,
But I never could quite discover
Even who you were, you knave.
Struggle, strive, stretch, searching,
Desperate to find relief,
In every nook and cranny,
Turning over each stone and leaf;
I hounded you to dispatch you—
To rest finally was my belief.
Who are you, my constant companion,
Who I fear, hate, yet long to see?
You outwit me, and you mock me,
Yet you fit me to a tee.
I hate you now I love you.
How dare you be me!
(C) 5 January 1991, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.
Determined
Determined
In the heart of my heart is a door
Long locked and barred.
Aching. Yearning.
Deep desire.
What passion ruled me there?
I want to be loved, respected, admired.
I want to be an artist, serene.
I want to be saintly, earthy, risqué.
I want to be alive in all ways.
I want to be graceful, wise, fun, and deep.
I want to dance, sing, and run.
A secret compartment deep in my heart,
Buried yet ever with me.
Blocking. Preventing.
But not anymore.
Because I am determined to be me.
(C) 31 October 1992, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.
In the heart of my heart is a door
Long locked and barred.
Aching. Yearning.
Deep desire.
What passion ruled me there?
I want to be loved, respected, admired.
I want to be an artist, serene.
I want to be saintly, earthy, risqué.
I want to be alive in all ways.
I want to be graceful, wise, fun, and deep.
I want to dance, sing, and run.
A secret compartment deep in my heart,
Buried yet ever with me.
Blocking. Preventing.
But not anymore.
Because I am determined to be me.
(C) 31 October 1992, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.
My Eyes Have Told My Story All Along
My Eyes Have Told My Story All Along
I looked at some pictures the other day,
And, boy, what a big surprise!
I wasn’t as ugly as I was led to believe,
Regardless of my age or my size.
It was a stranger looking at me,
Yet I recognized my big sad eyes.
My story told a story amazingly clear.
They saw through a life of lies.
Fixed eyes and focused, sad and alone,
Waiting for the unseen…
Eyes filled with a purpose yet gentle and kind,
Fiery and strikingly keen.
Sweet eyes yet haunting,
Knowing yet stilled,
Ready to pounce,
Yet sealed.
Scares eyes and timid,
Searching for love,
Questioning without answers…
Hawk with eyes of dove.
Mysterious yet open,
Guarded but real,
Penetrating,
Much to reveal,
My eyes told my story
There all along,
But no one saw it before?
Clearly something’s wrong.
Yet my eyes covered it up,
Hiding inside,
Remaining undetected—
My life relied.
Yes, I looked at some pictures the other day,
And, boy, what a big surprise!
Seeing myself for the very first time
In my quietly beckoning eyes.
(C) 30 October 1992, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.
I looked at some pictures the other day,
And, boy, what a big surprise!
I wasn’t as ugly as I was led to believe,
Regardless of my age or my size.
It was a stranger looking at me,
Yet I recognized my big sad eyes.
My story told a story amazingly clear.
They saw through a life of lies.
Fixed eyes and focused, sad and alone,
Waiting for the unseen…
Eyes filled with a purpose yet gentle and kind,
Fiery and strikingly keen.
Sweet eyes yet haunting,
Knowing yet stilled,
Ready to pounce,
Yet sealed.
Scares eyes and timid,
Searching for love,
Questioning without answers…
Hawk with eyes of dove.
Mysterious yet open,
Guarded but real,
Penetrating,
Much to reveal,
My eyes told my story
There all along,
But no one saw it before?
Clearly something’s wrong.
Yet my eyes covered it up,
Hiding inside,
Remaining undetected—
My life relied.
Yes, I looked at some pictures the other day,
And, boy, what a big surprise!
Seeing myself for the very first time
In my quietly beckoning eyes.
(C) 30 October 1992, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.
That Old Nameless, Faceless Fear Again
That Old Nameless, Faceless Fear Again
I have known the terror
Of never being sure
Just when the next trauma
Would engulf my little world,
Of living out a nightmare
Yet appearing very good…
For whom?
I have known the terror
Of never feeling safe,
Of being ever vigilant,
Of pretending to be sedate…
How docile and passive—
Like an electric barbed wire!
But who cared?
I have known the terror
Of sleepless nights and sleep-filled days,
Of feeling lost and wandering
Through a mine-filled maze,
Of always looking back and forth,
Of never being sure…
Of whom?
(C) 23 October 1992, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.
I have known the terror
Of never being sure
Just when the next trauma
Would engulf my little world,
Of living out a nightmare
Yet appearing very good…
For whom?
I have known the terror
Of never feeling safe,
Of being ever vigilant,
Of pretending to be sedate…
How docile and passive—
Like an electric barbed wire!
But who cared?
I have known the terror
Of sleepless nights and sleep-filled days,
Of feeling lost and wandering
Through a mine-filled maze,
Of always looking back and forth,
Of never being sure…
Of whom?
(C) 23 October 1992, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.
A Wound for a Heart
A Wound for a Heart
Bubbling, boiling, heatedly churning,
Frothing and foaming, emotions are burning
Into my heart, my stomach, my head,
Violently reeling alone on my bed.
I cannot stop thinking. The memories come…
Upheavals, eruptions, but just feeling numb.
My stomach is knotted; memories play in my mind.
Tormenting and mocking, my life in a bind.
Furiously hating, bitter rancor,
Anger, hurt, fear: my grudging anchor
Holds me in place, frozen in time—
Will I ever be free from their despicable crime?
Sapping my energy, draining my life,
The past cuts right through me like a well-sharpened knife.
Will I ever be freed from my past?
Will I ever find peace in my heart that will last?
The chains are too heavy, too tight and too much,
Tangled, intertwined with my soul in the clutch
Of their cold, evil fingers, tearing me apart—
Big, gaping wounds in the place of my heart.
(C) 17 January 1993, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.
Bubbling, boiling, heatedly churning,
Frothing and foaming, emotions are burning
Into my heart, my stomach, my head,
Violently reeling alone on my bed.
I cannot stop thinking. The memories come…
Upheavals, eruptions, but just feeling numb.
My stomach is knotted; memories play in my mind.
Tormenting and mocking, my life in a bind.
Furiously hating, bitter rancor,
Anger, hurt, fear: my grudging anchor
Holds me in place, frozen in time—
Will I ever be free from their despicable crime?
Sapping my energy, draining my life,
The past cuts right through me like a well-sharpened knife.
Will I ever be freed from my past?
Will I ever find peace in my heart that will last?
The chains are too heavy, too tight and too much,
Tangled, intertwined with my soul in the clutch
Of their cold, evil fingers, tearing me apart—
Big, gaping wounds in the place of my heart.
(C) 17 January 1993, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.
P.T.S.D. Begins
P.T.S.D. Begins
Pinch me. Am I alive?
Yes, but I do not feel it.
Isn’t it strange to be alive yet feel dead,
Such deep wounds and never reveal it?
Nobody knows. Nobody sees.
Nobody knows except me?
Everyone knows. Everyone sees.
Everyone knows except me?
Constant turmoil. Constant calm.
Brightest clouds. Darkest sun.
Scorching rain. Pouring heat.
Standing still on the run.
Hiding in the open field;
Cowering in the hidden den;
Am I really so innocent
Drowning in the deepest sin?
(C) 22 October 1992, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.
Pinch me. Am I alive?
Yes, but I do not feel it.
Isn’t it strange to be alive yet feel dead,
Such deep wounds and never reveal it?
Nobody knows. Nobody sees.
Nobody knows except me?
Everyone knows. Everyone sees.
Everyone knows except me?
Constant turmoil. Constant calm.
Brightest clouds. Darkest sun.
Scorching rain. Pouring heat.
Standing still on the run.
Hiding in the open field;
Cowering in the hidden den;
Am I really so innocent
Drowning in the deepest sin?
(C) 22 October 1992, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.
Issues. Everybody’s Got Issues.
Issues. Everybody’s Got Issues.
Identity crisis would be just fine
Had someone not just smashed mine.
“I found myself.” “I lost myself.”
Everywhere: self, self, self.
Hello and how do I do?
I’m very sorry, have I met you?
Yes, I met me the day I’s born;
Then I left me all forlorn.
Oh, you poor and silly me.
How could you possibly not know me?
All my life I’ve felt so dizzy.
Gosh, finding me has kept me busy!
(C) 22 October 1992, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.
Identity crisis would be just fine
Had someone not just smashed mine.
“I found myself.” “I lost myself.”
Everywhere: self, self, self.
Hello and how do I do?
I’m very sorry, have I met you?
Yes, I met me the day I’s born;
Then I left me all forlorn.
Oh, you poor and silly me.
How could you possibly not know me?
All my life I’ve felt so dizzy.
Gosh, finding me has kept me busy!
(C) 22 October 1992, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.
It Circles Round
It Circles Round
Vague coursing
Snaking inwardly
Back and over and under
Up and around
Then back down again—
Unknowingly knowingly unknown
Shifting, sifting, lifting
A restless, rootless
Wildness…
Refusing continuance
Bound and chained
To a life not my own.
(C) 11 October 1994, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.
Vague coursing
Snaking inwardly
Back and over and under
Up and around
Then back down again—
Unknowingly knowingly unknown
Shifting, sifting, lifting
A restless, rootless
Wildness…
Refusing continuance
Bound and chained
To a life not my own.
(C) 11 October 1994, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.
Wolf Woman
Wolf Woman
She howls as she goes out
To collect those bones…
Puts them in her burden basket
And takes them home…
Those dry, dry bones that once held life.
She sings,
Tears flowing down her cheeks—
Note by note, tear by tear
Seeping into
Those dry, dry bones that once held life.
Her vigil of prayerfulness,
Tenderly, caressingly,
She cleanses, mends, and
Sculpts…
Those less dry bones that will re-hold life.
She howls, creates, loves.
She knows, waits, cries.
She sees, laughs, sings.
Then she touches
Those flesh covered bones that now hold life.
(C) 6 December 1994, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.
She howls as she goes out
To collect those bones…
Puts them in her burden basket
And takes them home…
Those dry, dry bones that once held life.
She sings,
Tears flowing down her cheeks—
Note by note, tear by tear
Seeping into
Those dry, dry bones that once held life.
Her vigil of prayerfulness,
Tenderly, caressingly,
She cleanses, mends, and
Sculpts…
Those less dry bones that will re-hold life.
She howls, creates, loves.
She knows, waits, cries.
She sees, laughs, sings.
Then she touches
Those flesh covered bones that now hold life.
(C) 6 December 1994, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.
Descent to Hel
Descent to Hel
The oven of Hel’s kitchen,
Where the staff of life is baked
In her regeneratively consuming flame,
Beckons me to enter and to taste her twisted loaf.
Never overdone nor under—
This bread of perfecting is
So delectable that merely one bite
Emblazons the eyes,
Enraptures the countenance, and
Elucidates my Self!
Such bliss to be enfolded in Hel’s warm embrace,
To be engulfed in the Maternal abundance
And to drink from her breast
The spark of life
That will one day intensely burn
As the creative fire,
Born and reborn
Of Woman.
(C) 14 October 1994, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.
The oven of Hel’s kitchen,
Where the staff of life is baked
In her regeneratively consuming flame,
Beckons me to enter and to taste her twisted loaf.
Never overdone nor under—
This bread of perfecting is
So delectable that merely one bite
Emblazons the eyes,
Enraptures the countenance, and
Elucidates my Self!
Such bliss to be enfolded in Hel’s warm embrace,
To be engulfed in the Maternal abundance
And to drink from her breast
The spark of life
That will one day intensely burn
As the creative fire,
Born and reborn
Of Woman.
(C) 14 October 1994, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.
Touch upon Touch
Touch upon Touch
Opening joyfully to my lover
With tender compassion,
Sensuous depths explore
The most intense passion.
Soulish friendship, burning desire,
Understanding births inspiration;
Touch upon touch, a taste and a smell,
Life in bodily sensation…
A spiritual meeting, so earthy, so rare,
Cherishing gifted treasures,
With intellectual commingling…
Metaphysical pleasures.
(C) 2 May 1999, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw
Opening joyfully to my lover
With tender compassion,
Sensuous depths explore
The most intense passion.
Soulish friendship, burning desire,
Understanding births inspiration;
Touch upon touch, a taste and a smell,
Life in bodily sensation…
A spiritual meeting, so earthy, so rare,
Cherishing gifted treasures,
With intellectual commingling…
Metaphysical pleasures.
(C) 2 May 1999, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw
Comfort My Love
Comfort My Love
A cold northwind pierced my heart today
As the face of my love in anguish beckoned to my soul…
Snow and ice can never freeze out
The warmth and fire I send to my love
As grief stalks between worlds
Of living and beyond…
So, speedily, dear wind, take my gift
Of heart to my love
That he may be comforted now and always.
(C) 11 January 1999, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw
A cold northwind pierced my heart today
As the face of my love in anguish beckoned to my soul…
Snow and ice can never freeze out
The warmth and fire I send to my love
As grief stalks between worlds
Of living and beyond…
So, speedily, dear wind, take my gift
Of heart to my love
That he may be comforted now and always.
(C) 11 January 1999, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw
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