A New Awakening to an Old Knowing

A New Awakening to an Old Knowing

God, I thought I knew you.

I thought I really did,

But when I really needed you,

Your face from me you hid.

As I searched for you and struggled

In the death roll of great pain,

What I thought I knew and had known before

Went racing through my brain.

Shattered, broken, shaken…

Something held me from long before,

Planted deep within my spirit—

Some supposed forgotten lore.

A deep voice sang in my ears again—

My heartbeat—the drum beat same,

“Look up, my child, and see the stars,

And know from whence you came.”

ã3 December 1993, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.

OK, But Don’t Tell Me I’m Going to Like It!

OK, But Don’t Tell Me I’m Going to Like It!

What do you do when you’re all alone

And it strikes?

You cannot scream loud enough,

Or get numb enough,

Or run fast enough,

Or sleep deep enough

To escape again.

And you know escape is not even the answer.

But how do you welcome torment,

Embrace agony,

Beckon to torture,

Entreat misery,

Cohabit with trauma,

Flirt with devastation?

And damn it all! That’s the only way out.

ã31 October 1992, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.

Panic Attack

Panic Attack

Cold, slimy fingers creeping up my spine…

   Body hair stands up.

      GASP!

Can’t breathe.

   Pounding heart.

      Dry tongue.

         Sweat.

A nameless terror tingles my colon.

   A knot here…

      And there…

PAIN!!

   Tense.

Eyes w-I-d-e open…

   Yet blind.

Straining ears are deaf.

Chilled,

   Yet burning up

      By turns.

Racing thoughts.

Escape!!!

Yet paralyzed.

Even tears have fled the scene…

   Silently screaming

IN PANIC!!!!!

Yet remaining

   Deadly

      Still.

ã22 October 1992, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.

Daddy, oh Daddy

Daddy, oh Daddy

Daddy, oh daddy,

Please love your little girl.

I’m scared, oh so frightened.

Let me in your lap curl.

Daddy, oh daddy,

I am a wee, wee tot.

I only want to laugh and play.

I don’t know what’s right, what’s not.

But daddy, oh my daddy,

I do not understand

Why you say you love me,

But on the other hand…

…daddy? Oh daddy?

Why does your love hurt so?

Why does what should bring me up

Make me feel so low?

ã19 June 1992, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.

Who Determines Human?

Who Determines Human?

What makes difference too very different
To be considered human?
Does one particular type of person
Have only that special numen?

Does the phrase “not like us”
Have to equal “deserve to die?”
Can someone very different
Still basically be like you or I?

Many wars have been fought,
Many millions be killed,
These questions stay unanswered
And our hatreds remain unstilled.

© Copyright, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw, 2000.
All rights reserved.

Personally Balanced

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.