The Chorus of Life

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Sit still.

Breathe.

Think.

In a hypnosis of a descending form,

mesmerized by the distilled song.

No longer entranced by a bitter source,

allowing Nature to take its course.

Sit.

Breathe.

Think of Life’s jubilation,

and give each Petal its admiration.

Yellow trumpets dance in delight,

mesmerized by the nourished song.

Sit.

Breathe the aroma of Petrichor,

and feel the gods origin,

as you get closer to great riches,

forget your place and the forbidden

for nothing may challenge a Tree during a storm.

Sit still and admonish the Falling Form

hypnotized by a drip-drop song.

No longer encumbered by mortal sin,

giving Nature its violin –

The song plays on …

 

 


Writing is Centering, Like Prayer

Yes, growing up in a home that incubates trauma has lasting effects and shows up in the most unexpected ways. Great post to read!

BREVITY's Nonfiction Blog

marciabilykBy Marcia Krause Bilyk

The day after Trump’s inauguration, when Sean Spicer stood at the White House podium and declared the crowd the largest in Inaugural history, instead of scoffing at him, instead of declaring him as nuts as his boss, I was transported to my childhood feelings of rage, fear, and despair.

I grew up with a narcissistic father. Our home was suffused with his grandiosity, his exaggerations, his uninformed opinions. Mother, for reasons I couldn’t understand, didn’t contradict or question him. If I complained to her in private about his bullying, she’d say, “Your father loves you.” It felt crazy. Mother warned us not to speak of what went on at home to our friends. Dad’s rages were a closely guarded secret. There was no predicting what might set him off.

I withheld from Dad what he wanted and expected of me: affirmation, loyalty, devotion. I vowed I’d be…

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