(c) 1999, 2000 Jaclyn Stein Henderson, All rights reserved.
To reproduce any poem on this page, in any form, please contact Jaclyn, jaclynh@oz.net.
Works of art "are always products of having been in danger.
Of having gone to the very end of an experience,
to where one can go no further."
--Ranier Maria Rilke
Warning to ex-cult members and abuse survivors:
The following poems depict images and language that may spark disassociation or other forms of
PTSD, remembrance which may require therapeutic assistance from a licensed mental health counselor.
Please use discretion when viewing these poems, and seek the help that you need to make sure you are
safe and your needs are met. Namaste, Jaclyn
From The Wisdom to Grow Downwards, 'Maniacal Tendencies' Section
Approaching Equinox
In diminishing light
my portioned keeper
bates me
with fire.
Star custodian of the pyre
he downsizes the flames with seasonal vent
sets stardust particles smoldering
clouds the constellation with gaseous fumes.
When he swells the sun he lengthens the day
raises my stakes by lowering his own
weighs down our compromise
with distended labor.
Thus we see-saw our way from one season to the next
from one mantra prayer sighing, rising,
holding, longing for any equal contact
made sensible.
The worst is with
approaching equinox.
The sun sits rival in the sky
not falling down, nor rising up.
This burning equilibrium displaces
the spectrum of my senses
comes closest to center
rubs raw the magnetic pull between.
Clenches my insides out
makes me want to parachute myself
out of my skin, nauseated by the g-force,
flee, scurrying to heaven.
It's useless. There's no way off
this flying machine.
I grip both sides of the base
knees knocking for balance.
I huddle myself into a little ball
and chain, secure in the new growth--
old growth knowledge that the universe too
swings itself along.
Suicide
Death follows me
like a cat out of hiding.
Curls up on my lap
and sleeps, then wants to be fed,
scratched and loved.
Not homeless this feline pet
but hungry for petting and to play.
I used to keep him outside
but then he started wanting me to hold him.
So I let him come in
roam around, stretch out
become used to this habitude.
He's a big brute of a tom
I call him Suicide, and he's out of the bag now
so it's okay.
He likes to play this game with me--
a game of cat and mousy person.
He tries to catch my mind up in his claw
so he can bite into it,
then side lying we snuggle up to each other
my emotions caress his underbelly
he comforts me with big quilted hugs
the kind that smother you with attention.
I find it encouraging to know that
death can take me anytime.
Not just when I fear him,
but when we do this dance--
coming up close, then parting,
seeing into each others' eyes
and hearts.
He knows my heart, my patient kitty.
He sits and waits until just the right moment
when he sees a troubled thought go by
then he rushes to pounce on it
tries to eat it up so that I become lost
inside his plan for me,
that is, so he can take me to the end
so I can see myself dead
an eternal reminder of who I once was
but now laid to rest without mind or matter.
But until he eats me up
it's just cat and mousy time.
One day we'll say goodbye.
I'll take him to the pound and with ceremony
watch while they decapitate and atomize him.
(Oh, you didn't like that, eh?
Ha, ha! Tag.
I got you first!
No, no.you're it.)
My Suicide is in Remission
My suicide is in remission
sleeping sound or indisposed
perhaps undressed, or bathing,
soaking up my labored underscores.
She's disappeared, is hiding,
lining bureau drawers with panties laced
or underneath my bed is panting
waiting for a dream to chase.
I called to her, 'pray, come up hither
consciously awake in me,'
but she defiantly refused
knowing how my prayers can be
so violently opposed to darkness
even though she's whipped me raw
to view the clenched uncirculating
pliant vein completely drawn
of blood, of life, of unwell seeking
rest from vital tendencies my muse,
my kin, my quell, my partner do not
leave me so deficiently-
there still is much to finish, ponder,
walk, address the teaming throngs
outside our habitude, with written
explanations of your songs-
your songs, yes! soaring through my lacking
synapsed brain they melt, they ooze
inside the empty corpuscles of
puzzled mind and carnal news.
Perhaps you'll come again to stare
between my eyelids, lead me through
the blank confusing maze, the shuddered
inability to choose
life or death, that very instant
that you're here, a cutting edge
one thin, unbearable and sheering
choice I see, a slivered wedge.
I never know, when you're around,
what hand it is that sees the day,
the choice to live again, what voice
that speaking softly says to stay.
From The Wisdom to Grow Downwards, 'Songs My Father Taught Me' Section
In Green Light
The Shires were due for cocktails at 7 p.m.
Mom prepared the drinks to
show them on the silver tray. The maids had been in
that day cleaning. The glass sparkled expecting
high balls with toasts. The green lights were
turned on out front so the neighbors would know that we were
entertaining. You had already warmed up the speakers
all day with takes from your sessions: Tom Dooley, The Bounty Killer,
Premature Burial, Lon Chaney Jr., and of course
Jerry Lewis who recorded your favorite title just two days before
he collapsed in Vegas.
You liked to tell that story to your guests.
I never slept on these uninvited nights.
The green light kept me awake, humming your tunes.
You see you were entertaining all of us.
The entire family was drawn up into your every act
hustled off to bed early, kept out of sight and so quiet,
so you could prepare.
But we always listened for the music--
our favorite songs that drew us up, into your world.
Through the talk and clinking glasses
we heard your Bozendorfer hands
stroking the keys like velvet.
The Macintosh speakers sagged on the wall
under the weighted sound. With each cue
you caressed our souls a little deeper
moved us a little closer
but not close enough to let us in.
Your huge hands orchestrated our family's rhythm,
twisting our hearts backward with each stroke.
Those same gifted hands that had
struck me silent time and again,
smacked me down for making small
insignificant mistakes,
threw me against the wall for any tiny
human imperfection. You never learned how to
handle with care the childhood tenderness
we trusted you to keep.
Before they arrived
after you had arranged all the tracks in order
you slipped away,
without her knowing,
behind the hall door,
inside my room,
shouted at me with pent-up fisted rage,
beat me black and blue to teach me
love was fear,
fear was love,
love was a mistake,
love was a menace,
uncontrollable like life
was love, unbearable to feel
or to touch was love,
unknowable love.
When you showed me your fear, your love,
I dissociated into the woodwork.
I never knew you.
Then, from my window
we heard their car door slam,
their shoes scrapping the concrete steps.
They rang the front door bell smiling,
in green light,
just as you pulled out your watch
from my tangled curls,
and with a disgruntled sigh
disguised yourself with normalcy,
left me there sobbing,
to greet your guests.
From The Wisdom to Grow Downwards, "Black Priests of Light" Section (Cult Recovery)
how to clean a toilet
with your gloves on
skim the outer back top of the lid
your sponge moistened with disinfectant
repeating the words, "all cleanliness is next to godliness,"
remembering that you're not cleaning this toilet for yourself,
but for the lord's body on earth. rejoice!
when you lift the lid,
always align your higher spirit with the word of god.
here is where men leave their drops of goodness,
and as we know, men are the positive points
and women are the negative points in god's plan,
so don't take anything that they leave behind
personally, but lift it up to god for blessing.
heaven and earth are one,
so clean the top portion of the toilet bowl first,
and then the inner bowl.
this inner sanctum should remind you of
the golden bowl, always open to receive your prayers,
not your longings, but your perfect love
to serve god in every way.
uniting heaven and earth we are now one in christ.
you should now stop to reflect on your duties
as beneficent opportunities to prove yourself
as a true member of this, his only family on earth.
be sure to dust the toilet lid, and
pick up any small specks of dirt anywhere near
for these serve as a reflection on you.
these particles of dirt reflect those very same
small mistakes that you make in the eyes of god,
and in the eyes of your server.
these sad little oversights will be seen by others
recorded and given back to you later
so that you may do recompense with your server
whenever he deems it necessary.
all will know that you blundered in the sight of god
so leave a perfect peace wherever you pass
and remember that not everyone was chosen
to fulfill god's plan so give thanks to be able to participate
even with all of your small dirty inadequacies.
the lord has to start with us somehow!
be sure to be finished with your chores
in time to meet with your server.
line up in a row
show him your clean hands
and outstretched arms so that he knows
you are there to serve the lord
to meet his needs,
and to move in the current of the spirit.
your job is to employ yourself with whatever acts
he finds necessary in the eyes of god,
and in whatever positions he wishes to hold.
bear yourself upon him as his needs fit,
for his ways should be your ways,
so sayeth the lord,
and you will be remembered in his book
until the next time, and let us all say
amen.
The Feast
If my heart and soul were exposed from their shell
dissected and removed for further study
then cooked up fillet of soul
with creamed 'heart of lani' on the side
(a truly out of body experience for the consumer)
I would not know the difference
for I am now without heart and soul.
My mind would watch the feast from above--
all the sitters and the takers, the black priests of light
toasting the inequities they ran through my veins
spiritual drugs they used to numb my senses.
See there--they're washing down their sins
with a blend of blood 'n guts
munching on my simmered tenderloins with herbs
licking up my juicy lips for dessert.
As they swallow each bite
my shadow wriggles up their spine
to make them take a closer look:
choices I could have made
or paths I might have taken,
love I could have shared with family
at needful times (which were all times),
a decent job with learned commitment
to cherish beyond the lie,
friendships only quoted
from wrinkled pages now boxed and buried.
Give me your hand. See--
my heart beats.still.in my chest
and my soul cries out
from within this shell to be released--
(Oh God, what must I do to be released?)
We are made to suffer and to feel
that is why when you sup on me
taste all my meats.
Some pieces may be hard to swallow
because you left them out
of the first feast of life.
But when you come to my heart
take care to miss the wounded parts.
The fibrous capsules
I grew for protection
may make you choke.
From The Wisdom to Grow Downwards, "The Wisdom to Grow Downwards" Section
Down Falls the Final Iron Hand
Down falls the final iron hand
striking the hour with demand, despair
for having left undone the fettered mind
keeping its wisdom silent, in repair.
To those whose thoughts discourage them from slight
veneration to the saddened muddied stream,
or cleave to sorrow's hooks, blind-bellied eye,
I hasten you to chart another dream.
A dream that rallies force from deep within,
deciphering soul code elemental strands
of life-long laden gifts one has not given,
withheld, not yet encouraged to command.
A dream to heal a lifetime's ache for peace--
a mere dream this, for no peace have I found
within my soul code's casement strings I've locked
away forever my unruled rebound.
Torment through my bones, my bread, my blood,
tired, a fixed to bed though that the sun
shines brightly through this long September noon,
I cannot stand, this downward turn begun.
Scurry me back into the rising hand!
Wind up all links, all shackles pieced with time.
Prepare me to ascend the waking hour!
Lift me to deliver what is mine.
The Wisdom to Grow Downwards
Dried-out pea green vines turn to drink golden--
they thirst in the sun, I water them well
though I abandoned them early this season they grew up,
learned how to survive, how to blossom and swell...
Full summer now, golden, the shade slants discreetly
through forest grove woodlands I've never walked through.
I prefer to leave wilderness still to the sparrows,
owls, squirrels and rabbits, my home is theirs too.
A dozen flies dart dizzy scattering skyward
criss-crossing their fears with erratic enclave.
I watch for a moment, one lazy eye upward
their randomness takes me, making me slave.
Voracious fish hunt for the food I throw pondward
the warm watered surface jumps squiggling with gold.
They've grown so this summer, their appetite beckons
them onward, a will that I never could hold.
Thorny big berries long ripened on tendrils.
I haven't yet picked them this year, nor did spray
the five fruit trees planted three years ago autumn.
I haven't been able to attend, day to day.
I can't seem to care for my own--it's not planned for,
I'm just weary, exhausted, four acres of land
I once thought excessive, then irrelevant, now vital
to discover myself, to give back what I can.
I must do this thing-it is tearing me on
so with raked edge I shovel a hole for a tree,
a Japanese Maple, her limbs leaning downward
she skims the new earth with her hair, on my knees
right next to the pond, I lay her in gently
a deep hole I fill in with water and air,
rich liquid allows her new roots to grow deeply
search out the shy spaces left open and bare.
I pat down the dirt that lay top of her rootstock
and stepping aside I offer a prayer
a singular thought that came easily to me
a wish that I gain strength to be able to care.
Looking up I'm surrounded with 90 foot douglas,
fir, spruce and pine, old growth, my forest and home,
wisdom packed spirals grow upward to heaven
their branches lift up a new green laden dome.
Evergreen teachers befriend me, the lonely,
dark and the light they bear high on the climb
standing straight, reaching sun-ward their strength and reliance
inspires new virtue, endures throughout time.
I walk on their roots, leaning outward they guide me
'attend to your own needs, your natural self-worth.
Use your wisdom--grow downwards in search of these secrets.
We'll show you the love to live deep in the earth.'
Sunset
So quiet.
Stillness bends down
drops a shaded dreamy starlit sky
across my mind
nestles me into nocturnal fantasy
grants me waking sight to see
the inseparable shadow.
Viridian blue above
the damask edge
blends to midnight.
Shades of night before the fall
the thick black curtain that falls
the endpoint that lands us to
a different time
a turning point in time
a blue empty time turned gray,
pale, colorless, a mere memory of
the bright newborn dawn
now turned descendant.
This illusory time reminds us to
reduce ourselves into darkened shades
by imperceptible degrees.
Winged bats evacuate my dark forest
in swoopss round strange insect circles
messengers of the branched horizon
they find their way,
ticking themselves out.
When finally it is done
the sun surrenders herself to silence.
With her last degree of light
she gives over her music
to the moon crescent wafer-
a milk drop humming drum
beating out its night time reverie
in an ocean of black
seamless infinity
crested bright with stars.
From Crossing Over, Poetry, Prose, Play, Poetry Section
Skybound (for Stephen King, ND)
Bright sun sparks the day
I await to see one tenured master,
one hold in the middle ground.
I seek myself newborn
my mouth is stayed
a little 'o' invites new wonderment.
Swell me
take me to the forward edge
Ease me
lead me laughing
Bounce me
through the swinging gate
Await me
pensile to begin this two-step waltz
Skip me
like a stone chip
along the cool curved surfaced edge
Lace me
tat me down firmer emotions
pliant, renounced of disapproving
obstinacies, sustained and unreliable
for passion's sake.
A pigeon purrs for crumbs
she too delights to be fed from
strange generous hands
those that stay the hungry need for more.
I sit patient
the still water's edge baits me,
draws me in
to meet this salient seashore
this stippled haven
with its cold breakwater trim
its blue chance drifting through the tides,
level, with no solemn swollen question,
inward, on the climb over,
to the above place where I fly
skybound,
needing nothing,
not an answer,
nor a sound.
Ode to the Cat
I've lived such a life today,
dozing in snatches,
made excursions, discoveries
in my daily round catches.
I purred for her lovies,
rubbed ankles and knees--
the best kind of love
given to domesticatees.
I sprayed, and then showered
with tongue slick and demure,
picked toenails, flicked fleas as I
licked skin and fine fur.
Was fed six times daily,
just the best of the brand
(though she's got me on formula,
a kind I can't stand!)
"Hmph!" I say, "Diddily!
Don't you know I've been bred
to catch shrews and mice quickly,
I'd better be fed
"from only the best dishes,
fine fishes and meats,
just the tenderest morsels
you may give me as treats.
"And yes, you may pet me
right now since I'm clean.
You may scratch me and kiss
all my favorite betweens.
"Hmmmm, that feels good."
she purrs with deep rolling sighs.
("I love how my mistress
rubs fur on both sides
of my ears.") Peaked and down turned,
they listen for sounds,
from that ingrate, old Grey-face
a low, mixed-bred found
every morning and evening
on top of the couch.
(I hide behind doors
and daily I pounce.)
Screeching and hissing
we fight for domain,
for her lap and at bedtime,
her attention, the aim
is to capture her first love!
Her most love! and I win!
For she's had me much longer
than you've ever been!
Your place is as second,
I'm captain 'o the guard,
the best kitty in the city,
the prettiest calico of them all.
So hitch up your britches,
take your place far behind;
there's only enough room
for this one big feline,
and I'm it! You take care now,
for if ever I see you
meowing for scratches,
you'll get some from me!
(This one's my latest cult recovery poem)
Full Circle
A woman sits in a dry wash.
She paints the sand with a broken chicken leg
dried blood still clinging to its thorns.
She hops it along the sand until it begs
to be let go, hops away,
a dragging little kind of hop
still feeling the embrace of the knife
a remembrance of having its veins cut
exposed to the world
its vitals lashed and gashed apart
a long red remembrance past,
only a remembrance now.
The woman kneads the sand apart with her bare hands.
Bit by sandy stranded bit
she builds a castle of the past.
A rounded curtain, buttressed and flagged,
steeple gated, surrounded by a moat of stars.
She sees into her circled bastion
eyes bright with diamonds
reflecting a pair of beautiful brown shimmering stars
peering into the watery moat.
Her diamond eyes dismiss her past--
empty-hollowed halls
and footsteps sounding far away,
further still.now gone.
She builds her castle high.
Sets sandy stone upon rocky crag
pits salty sea urchins, briny and full,
their long tentacles cupped to the tide
against dollar dozing crabs,
half-pecked apart by the sea's gulls
loud they call, noisome and shrill
a raw cavalcade of new brine they beckon.
Bending down she summons them, and they listen.
They exchange laments with wave upon wave of
tidepool dancers,
clear sandy-bottomed holdfast feeders
clinging to the new tide.
Upon her knees she rises and enters in.
With gulls crying at her heels
she mourns her loss
each day of innocence gone by,
duped years collected in a shoebox
a stone's throw into the sandy wavy bottom
now gone by, now gone by.
She calls to her gulls, "Surround me in the next turn..."
And they fly to her as she walks
her circled path, the perimeter of her castle keep.
A mandala's hedge she's built
sounder than stone so she can see
the games from above.
One pitting eye against the other,
for place, for time, for keep.
She stands beholden only to her knowledge.
Wisdom learned from a crown of cups.
Full and resplendent it appeared one day,
a gift from the sea, she knew not how,
but their drops spilt over to the next,
the next need, the next vital need,
calling her home.
But now she knows that she can never return.
Her home from the past is gone forever.
Now it's up to the cups to show her the way.
Spilling over, they drop their warm pearls on her neck,
shoulders, arms, and hands.
They spill over onto others far below.
Others who pit themselves against another in the games.
She doesn't care upon whom the pearls drop.
She's learned that their warmth will lift them
despite their ignorance, higher than where they've been.
To new ground, unknown territory,
to new home, foreign, gifted with mystery,
a faint recollection of being.
They too will be able to carve out a new home.
She greets her keep with clapping and with dancing.
Above the tall strong players there below.
She clasps her hands together.
Recites her mantra rising, new prayers that turns
the rocky seaside slope to dripping swollen cups,
and with faithful ones who shine with her above
their filled replenished lamps aglow,
come home they come, come home with her
to dance and sing a new life flow.
And she, accepting now her home,
she sits contented up above.
From one bloodied chicken ghostly past
to this sandy salty seaside coast
one castle strong and fast stands firm.
Full circle comes along, for she,
for she alone comes home,
comes home, for she alone
full circle comes.
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