Pathways from Heart to Mind

[cheloniakorupoetry]

Survivor - A Variation

She spoke of the plant that refused to die -

In the self same strange and parallel universe of my own lost love - The analogy is not lost on me as it seems to be some sort of strange ritual I have just learned of - The losing love - the leaving love Sends the soon to be ex a fucking plant.

My plant did not encourage me to survive as Sienna’s succulent did - My plant did not survive my lack of care and feeding and watering - by thriving on the dryness and the sunlight As Sienna's succulent spread it's arms to the light on on her windowsill Reminding her to reach for the sun even in the darkness of their love - No - mine was a succulent of another sort More like the sucking kind that said FEED me in a twisted Venusian drama The plant MY ex sent to me did not thrive in the dryness It did not remind me that I needed to take care of my self and turn my fallen leaves into new soil to nourish my self No - mine demanded attention Mine demanded water - stretching it's leaves out to me in a plaintive and pretty plea for nourishment LOVE me it said! Love ME! Water me - tend me care for me and never leave me - not for a moment for if you do - then I shall wither I shall wilt until you return and water me with your tears and your blood and the very essence of your self Withdraw from me and I die

And yet in that curious paradox of a message - this plant that she sent me that was in form of a bean - A bean that said "I love you" on it - how I do not know. They do crazy things to plants these days. I also surrounded this bean with soil and put it on a sunny window sill - and it sprouted - (like our love) and grew (like our love) and spread it's leaves to the sun (like our love?) And so began the demands that were my own analogy for our relationship - Full of demands Care for each other like this plant I thought We will grow I thought We will learn to nurture our love like this plant I thought. She will demand every last drop of my being I thought. But I will not give up I thought. I will fight for this plant - I will fight for our love - I will fight for OUR mutual survival.

I do not have a plant and an ex like Sienna does now. For me, the plant is gone too and I am glad not to have that reminder of that sucking plant in my face or on my windowsill No longer slave to water - it's cloying and plaintive posture I tried to save it I did I gave it all I had and more I put it in the window and then on the floor I gave it my heart and soul and tears and blood and it grew and wilted and demanded even more And it stretched it's leaves out like my skin on some nazi lampshade Used for her light after snuffing my own Oh yes Sienna - I too have grown I have learned to be alone That plant doesn't rule my sentimental and clinging codependent heart That plant doesn't even inspire my art (except for maybe this poem) That plant faked it's death and drew my last sympathetic breath And is no more I do not muse on that plant when I look at the windowsill where it sat I am done with that The consuming plant was itself consumed My cat made sure of it. ~CheloniaKoru 2015 01 15

Credit and appreciation to Sienna Burnett’s “Survivor” ( https://youtu.be/7PGoaaKgtns )  which inspired me to document my similar story

[cheloniakorupoetry]

Ocean blue So many poems have been written about you What shall I write to you that you don't already know? I sit here alone with thousands of people on this boat and I am alone as we all are and I look at you and I am floating too and I am water and I am wind and I am salt and I am foam and I am fish and I am kelp and I am sand and I am shell I am chel I was chel of illusion but I see clearer now I am not chel of maya now I am chel of chel of a shell of my former self and this time I fill myself with that which is me that which is empty that which was that which I am and am not not that which others would have me be this is strange and new for me I am feeling my way through this it is dark like the darkening horizon I do not know where the light comes from is it the sun she was my sun and robbed me of my son and now I have neither and neither do they have me and we never did anyway so now it is all begun again and it is empty and it was and it is and I am I and wondering why remember that Jefferey sama? Why am I me? HA! we should all be the why am I me let go of the me that I thought I was and just be the me that is the why the Y not the Z the alphabet of time of stars and rhyme and letting go of the particles we hold so desperately and that slip through our fingers like grains of sand hold tight and a few grains may stick to our skin fall into the crevices of our fingerprints like miniture boulders within the avalanche of the map of lines on our skin that is largely unnoticed except by time which runs like rivulets thorough those lines expanding the grand canyon into what was once full of collagen and smootheness which was once a new year's baby so soft and plump and full of life and fades slowly with age but not fades instead it grows it grows and deepens and runs like ridges and caverns of the moon we should name these cracks these lines these maps these evidences of time we spent swimming and not dying and the edges of our lives in the lines on our skin in the prints on the pads of our fingers that desperately type out meaning on the keyboards of our laptops where we search for our insides that spill through the lines of our lives in the songlines of the maps of our minds in the edges of our fingernails in the lines of our mouths in the crows feet of our eyes in the edges of our lives we are constellations of our tears tears that are the same chemical consistency of the sea that is blue that is me that is you that is the sea that knows already what I wrote for it has been written before and so I see me in the sea and so I was and will be unseen to be I am me I am the sea. ~Chelonia Koru 2016 01 01

[cheloniakorupoetry]

A Solstice Star

And so it was it came not upon a midnight clear... A light of brilliance that was not of the orb of night or day A shining a sliver a beam Slipping through the thick suffocating darkness that coated this airspace around my senses and my mind Just a crack Just a pinprick The smallest of entrances for the thread of silver Or is it golden I cannot tell It is so dark in here

But lifting my heavy heart that rests heavy upon the top of my fallen shoulders... The weakness of my neck can raise it only barely And lifting swollen lids the dust of the heavy air slips off my lashes. Eyes - why open eyes - there is nothing to see in this darkness There is no time to perceive there is not even emptiness - There is nothing here - but it is full Full of loss and unknowing But this sliver of light It falls down from that small opening up above Like a nail hole in a beam of the ceiling on the old roof of my mind The grains and the knot holes winding through the rough saw cut of the supports of this room This room I want to leave This room that is my prison

The light has no purpose It is neither good nor evil It just is and the particles of dust dance in it's wake The energy of light of lightening energy in a darkness so thick you would think that this light would drown As I have been drowned But the thread of light Like a hook on the end of a fishing line Reaches through this sea of dust Through the thick and heavy cloud of emptiness that fills this room And touches something in me Just a touch But it is enough

I become small and I shrink even smaller than I thought I was Smaller than I thought I could be Smaller than the smallest disappearance I yearned for And dissolving between tears the flesh melts away The small thread of light becomes the portal Something in the broken parts of me lifts The dead coagulated blood pays attention and takes a small breath The light penetrates The dense smallness of my being Of the heavy no thing of my nothing ness It lifts a small breath It's still there - this small breath The small breath is fed by the light It cannot believe There is no belief left but the smallness of the light touches the smallness of my being and lifts the long heavy and almost gone pulse to register a small blip on the flatline of my eyes and the light shines through the no thing ness the nothing less the less than nothing and dissolves the thick heavy chain around my neck It was never there anyway And the darkest of metals will glimmer in a light That stretches and touches without being it was it is lift the eyes and see - even if it hurts The darkness of my own making And this small light That is smaller than me Is the thread that holds new view right view left view center view no view change the view the light - the small still no good no evil light that just is lift the breath the breath has a pulse still the breath is all that was and wasn't coudn't see me

~Chelonia Koru

12/14/15

[cheloniakorupoetry]

There Are Dead People in My Closet

Closet Close it Closure Not mine. At least not at this time. It actually scares me to go in there.

If a desk or a vehicle is a representation of a person's personality mind or inspiration then I shudder to think what others might learn from a foray into my closet

At first glance you might see what an orderly me shirts with collars all in a row shirts without collars over there below One step more ordered by color and hue It is more organized than some would do

Over there is a glimmer Those not often used clothes with a moonlight shimmer silk and some sparkles they're all sorted together waiting for a holiday or some special weather

Yeah - that's about as far as it goes For the neatness with clothes. It's looking underneath that is the frightening thing. I don't even want to think about it.

Over there is dad's hat I see it from time to time It's not that bad - it's a memory - I can deal with that. Until I lightly just put it on my head and think that he wore it and will never wear it again and then the happy light feelings get heavy and they fall to the floor and the hat comes off and goes back to it's place.

Flipping through dresses I see the hanger the hanger with the skirt on it the same skirt I hid behind as a child the same skirt that was in her closet when she died and now it's in my closet but I am not dead yet and it's there - on a hanger - this floral skirt of decades ago why do I keep it still there it is year after year next to my dresses -

Underneath the hems of those dresses are some boxes and bags. Long forgotten things within that will unleash like Pandora's box and release hordes of ghosts and demons that will rush out in a storm to devour me. So I leave them hidden down below. And every time I go into my closet I try to turn a blind eye but they are there just the same and I know it and the things know it and they watch me and they use their secret powers of attraction - like Magneto they pull in things that fall into their corner of the floor and when I go searching for what fell they pull me in and hold me entranced like a Medusa and I look and I turn to stone

Those hearts and cards and letters and mementos Rose petals and ribbons and lace Jewelry and presents and trappings of our years of romance Mixed with the joyful memory is a sudden fierce and piercing stab of pain And the tears come unbidden Even though I have now been turned to stone

A stone mausoleum that some may call a closet.

A hat of my dead father A skirt of my dead mother There are dead people in my closet.

The once living gifts of my now dead romance Forlorn and lost beings form the tomb of my life with her And now perhaps I am also dead

There are dead people in my closet.

~CheloniaKoru

[cheloniakorupoetry]

Limits

What can I do with a minute? Such a limit to my stream of consciousness! I'm in it but not to win it I'm in just it to be - if it is to be it is up to me set me free and I will see!

Should I stay or should I go Where the hell is here anyway?? I don't know what I don't know And the empty space within the garden of my soul takes on this row that I must hoe

Carry this and pick this up And endless stream of collectibles to gather dust in the closet of my heart I'm in it - Give me a minute What in the hell is it

Ohhhh let it go Some said I'd regret it but I Set it and forget it I don't want to let it go oh no Grasp it and hold it it's mine don't take it! My mind thinks it's mine and I bought the line and it's time but this string will unwind

Every day of our lives We spend all our time moving things from place to place. What would happen if for one minute We didn't begin it How do I spin it...

I did it

See you on the other side. Of my limit.

[cheloniakorupoetry]

Tapestry of My LIfe

Wanting, wandering, weaving and wending, Threads of coarse spun material scratching and scraping, The warp and weft spun of yarn or thread, I would choose silk - but it does not always choose me and really - do I wish my life to be built upon the hapless drowning of so many thousands of helpless worms that never knew that leaf they would munch was to be their last lunch? no - I would not - perhaps I will not prefer silk - it takes too much care and delicate cycles and special detergent and don't snag it - and it is soooo expensive!! Yet it is strong... They make parachutes out of it... Sometimes I am falling and I need a parachute... If I had more silk - maybe I wouldn't die when I hit the ground...

No - the course threads and yarn that weave within - these are maybe not as fine - not as delicate - not as pretty and I find them more often - these - these are stronger. Perhaps made of hemp? What does that say about the wisping vapors of diminishing realities and dimensions that construct the days? Is time really relative? If it is, then how are these threads weaving and wending together? What is this construct - what is this loom that sets me free and binds - all in one more pass of the shuttle? This tapestry - this fabric - this is me and yet it is not. This is not me. This is not mine. This is not myself. This is a picture - this fabric of my life...

Oh This thread is frayed, look how it is worn and broken... how to extract it from this fabric without destroying the design? This fabric of design of mine - of me - of time

Another thread is so thin and stretched look here - it is a wonder that it still holds it's place in this tapestry, And the one next to it so strong I did not see it before - it winds through so many other broken ones... This one serves no more - this broken thread. It is unraveling - it must go - tear - get the stitch ripper - pull and shred the seam - rip the ties that bind it in - release it! Let it go! It's gone - it fell to the floor now it fades from the textile's work... And look!  where it came from - deep in the design - the threads next to it lay bleeding where their broken neighbor was pulled away... But they will heal.  Do they weep at the loss of their torn and broken and now lost sister thread?

Will this tapestry survive the loss of so many of it's parts? Can it survive the constant destruction and recreation?

Look - there are more - so many damaged threads. Rip them out - one by one - tear them out and replace them! or this tapestry serves for nothing - look how weak and ragged it looks - fix it - fix it before it disintegrates and drapes itself dropping upon the fading heartbeat of a dying mind and world  -only a shadow of a haunted house's furnishings that are covered in cobwebs and dust - a tapestry that has lost its youth and beauty and glory - throw it down - down on the funeral pyre of lost and useless things...

No - wait - if I remove this thread - this one - just so - I can save it - it still serves - it was a weft but now it can be a stronger warp - if I place it over here - on the other side I can use this one again - with what shall I blend it... I need more. .. how do I connect this new old thread?

On this end of the tapestry the design is de-constructed - project runway has nothing on me! Take it apart - the whole is nothing without it's parts and when I take out the parts what is left but empty space... that is this life's tapestry - empty space with threads weaving in and out - sometimes I see the design growing and becoming brilliant and I shall hang it over the hearth fire of the great hall in the castle of my mind and all shall exclaim at the artistry and grandeur of this beautiful tapestry of ages - the majesty and brilliance of the colors - the artistic magnificence of the design - I am in awe at my own creation!  Here it is in the middle alone - no one can see the thousands of broken threads I have to rip from the center and follow throughout until every last defective piece is separated from that which serves - that which holds the design together - and as I deconstruct - I have more threads to discard that are hidden below these offending wasted pieces of yarn... how did so many broken pieces get into this tapestry of me?

And each thread I remove leaves an empty space.  and each new and reused thread must have empty space to be - to exist - that which is empty creates my existence - and these threads - they come and they go - I reap and I sow - I weave and I deconstruct and rip out the old to weave the new - this tapestry is me and yet it is not.  this is not me - this is not mine. This is not myself - this tapestry is an empty picture of threads - threads that are dying and leaving and those that are newly weaving - these interdependent threads of me and mine - this sum of my parts in the emptiness of the all being now that is not- this.. a poem of a picture - this tapestry of my life.

~Chelonia Koru

[cheloniakorupoetry]

Third Finger - Left Hand

She's dead you know. Of course, it's hard to grow up without a mother. You don't have to tell that to my little sister - Who didn't get as many years with her as I did.   Even so... I didn't know her well either. But I put her ring upon my finger. Third finger, left hand. Why - It looks like a wedding band.

For unscrupulous cads and guys on the make They don't give a damn anyway - but still - A flash of that left hand helps my persona - I am unavailable. I am not on the market. I am not for the taking. I am a rock I am an island. She's dead - you don't know...

Time changes nothing and time changes all - How did she do it - she broke down the wall around my heart and it crashed into the place of sacred stone and lava flowed through my arteries and veins Throbbing with a life never known to exist outside of dark silliness in romantic poetic bliss And fantasy starlight and roses and candles - such bullshit How did this get on my island? Mom's ring came off and went into a drawer. A new ring in it's place. The symbol of a commitment - of the gift of my heart - of new life. Third finger - left hand - a new golden band. She's not really dead - I didn't know...

Yeah I should have known. Even the best stories end. It was too good to last and to bad to keep. Years to conceive of years to believe of years to redeem love Gone gone gone Like a tumbleweed dry and rolling across the desolate prairie of my mind The ring is gone. thrown into a lake. Will the lady rise from the depths in her dripping naiad dress with the lost golden band between her teeth like some drowned Medusa crying out for the water of life that streams from her heart in a gaping wound... No - the sounds of her tears are lost in the waterfall of my soul rushing and crashing down on the rocks from whence I came no farther down now - no sunlight remains in this grotto buried but not like treasure The white circlet on my finger is the soft untanned symbol of the decaying flesh that lost it's hope and it's life The pale flesh shadow of the ring that was on the third finger of my left hand.

Time stopped for a time Darkness reined. And deep below ground - in the mud below the rocks Shedding skin like a snake - the endless cycles of time rake away grains of my life like sand on the beach Stripping off pain and past and good and bad and happy and sad and love and hate Dropping off in sheets and peeling like an onion And always the companion of tears Until the last layer is gone Just a page of a memory remains A quote from Pushkin where happiness is not But there is a taste of something new The dark room has a sliver of light A crack from above That whispers peace and freedom and love With all melted away The circlets are gone No gold of old No symbol of imprisonment No sick blank white shadow where a ring once was The forms and feelings and perceptions faded fabrications of consciousness - They're all dead you know.

It is transformation.  And it is emptiness.

Now it is only The third finger of my left hand.

~CheloniaKoru

[cheloniakorupoetry]

Fear - Falling Off

I do not know how long I have lived under this blanket. Call me Linus perhaps - or Lazarus perchance. My inner eye awakens to a new light as the blanket lifts - gently I raise my head. I am walking alone.

As the blanket falls to my feet I stand straighter and look upon a horizon that has changed. I never saw it that way before. It is hard to see much from down in the trenches of my inner battlefield. I have always walked alone.

The wind touches my hair - and the breeze places a kiss of fond welcome upon my cheek. This world is so big and new. My fears limited my view when I peered through the threads of my eyelashes. I walk alone.

A leaf falls from a nearby tree and floats down past the path I am on. A gentle reminder to let go. The fear is falling off me now like the leaves of last season, and the one before that, and the ones before that. I stand alone.

Stretching now to the sky my arms are like branches and I embrace the empty space. The burden on my back is lighter. Layer by layer the fears of a lifetime rise from my roots and drift out through the rings on an ancient tree of my life. I breathe alone.

And I am.

~CheloniaKoru