Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Well, the title says poetry...

A touch of background, my brother is schizophrenic, and this poem was the result of several frustrating phone conversations. Has been read at the PSU Poets & Writers open mic in Plymouth, NH.

The Nazis chased you out of Barcelona.
But you saw their tracks,
the hidden swastikas in
the furniture and floor mosaics.
You had to do it, they needed to be dealt with.
Sacramento wasn’t much better,
but at least they let you drive.

you made it back to the Northeast
trailing smoke and broken dishes.
It seemed a safe haven
but car rides, dead sparrows,
woodland wanderings, crucified moths,
secret societies, scents of lead,
radioactive poison
left behind by terrifying men,
on your pillow
and the pages of a
magazine at the hospital.
They let you out on Halloween.

Having escaped, Houdini-like,
a single candle burns annually
hoping for a response.
Images not quite seen, black on black,
the voices speak through you
control your actions, there is
no accountability, “that was different,”
you say, “they were controlling
me again.”
And I have nothing.
No insight,
no response.


Beth said...

This is pretty close to perfect...
(and I only say pretty close because I don't want you to get a big head.)