held over but not held back 12/5/11

As I thaw

from environmental winters

of trauma

through this movement

called awareness

and dwell in dialogues

as restimulation

that emerges from within,

I am disheveled and battered.

A fine webby layer

of etheric nerves around my head

are bruised but deep is functioning.

It is a kind

of flaky first snow concussion.

And when I use recent history

as my method for checking

as to the damage

by a series of unfulfilling questions,

there are distortions in time,

sequence and occurrences.

I can only loosely summarize

in a patchwork of mumbled phrases.

It is almost a deductive effort

at what happened without the benefit

of a successful succession of details.

I am, for now, a damp dishrag

well after all the events have occurred.

I am airing it out totally by accident.

I have awoke

to these remnants of distortion

by proximity to these sensations

that sit sensorial, in residence

flooding inside my head.

Like aching eye sockets

or swollen eyelids,

they were there as part of

wherever this was that all took place.

I cannot swallow

what I have come to know

quite the same either

as if some things said

had stampeded out of my mouth.

But this is not telling me

why that is so.

I can look to my surroundings

for hard evidence,

look to the objects in the rooms

for psychic impressions,

left to glare back at me.

Surely there was fury and lashing out

and clumps of emotional wreckage

lying all about.

The colors, at that time, were vivid

and the actions were explosive

and done with a rush of abandon

to express what was coming through.

I do remember the breakage

which has long ago been picked up

and deposited as trash and gone.

Some of that will reappear

as missed objects

through habitual need for usage

but those pieces

once mindfully reassembled,

will not sing me this as sonnet

or tell me the full story.

They are bystanders of incidental abuse.

I don't feel like I can easily return there,

wherever there is . . .

It has now vanished

of its sorted lucid details.

The ambush setting

of those moments has dispersed.

What I have now is

a small band of tattered memories,

a concerted effort at resolution,

maybe to avoid,

maybe to understand and learn.

What was brought to light

then by such deeds?

Maybe it is to lick at some wounds

that otherwise I did not know,

that still fester in the etheric existence.

It is neither pity nor sorrow

that drives the interest to view.

There is a sense

of potential gain and worth

to this confusing state

but it is a grasping and refining

at what seems like

an ungainly gait of comprehension.

I do not know what next fits

or soothes or completes.

I am waiting inside of this movement

for things to gel,

for some other dimension of myself

to pick me up and pull me through

this lost sense into something found.

Little rays reluctantly come.

Eye catchers, so to speak,

pop up and begin to displace

the overall weight

of what blunder has happened.

By small threads

a new sail will come and billow up

upon this flat dank pool.

An original sea and passage

will upwind appear with momentum.

I will then ride

with all the elements identified

as dancing partners once again.

And the day will fill

this inner mind will sail

with rich reflections.

And these as utensils will serve

to imbibe smaller

but more poignant doses

of what all this was from then.

By that traumatic then comes

a learning lesson into now.

An honest moment of expression,

out of control, reveals its source.

A small childlike fear came forth

like a flash flood

racing through

a card house construction

of loving and intendedness.

Oh what happened to this order

that this hurt could accent

those moments so strongly

in such bending twisted ways?

Yet here are these haunts,

these rooms, hours later.

Here are these walls

and all the appointments as they lay.

None of them are speaking out.

All are like muted diurnal animals

Alive but asleep before me.

None are saying loudly with voices

or forwarding memories in movement.

But for how they lay,

they don't flinch or cower any more.

There are dripping stains

that have not dried.

There is no pretend

that nothing really happened.

There is nothing lost

but self contentions

to realize and to honor what occurred.

I am arising from my misery

and my confessions

in this procession,

realized and moving richly forward.

Everything as held over

will become aliveness restored . . .