Poetry 7-3-25

Posted on by sereichert

Travel leads to thoughts. Interesting new connections and inspirations do too… Travel also leads to not a lot of time getting to sit down and make up blog posts. So I hope you’ll forgive me for posting two poems in a row. This is an older one, not in my current headspace, but always, somehow, tattooed beneath my skin.






Remember Your Lines







What does depression feel like?





Like I want to sleep forever





but every time I fall into that





blissful unconsciousness,





I hope I never come back out





that it’s just a peaceful send off





So long…have a good flight





Don’t call when you get there.





Because…that would be weird





And freak everyone out…





It feels like…





I can’t feel





sunshine, or joy, or pride, or hope





I’m a slab of granite,





wavering on two crumbling pillars of sandstone





stuck in quicksand and sinking





and I don’t care if I go under





in fact, I welcome it and hope





it suffocates me





with calm commands,





breathe in…breath out…and hold





like an MRI of your final moment





but it never tells you





to breath in again





Depression feels like





I have no energy in my synapses





and even if I did, nothing I could do with it





would be worth anything to anyone





least of all myself





Depression is a gray, weighted blanket





only not for comfort, it’s for the unsurmountable load





that life gives you to carry





and you just can’t find a good enough reason





to carry it anymore;





but you can’t find your way out





from underneath it either





Depression is seeing through eyes





that are a movie screen





to an audience that lost its will to care





lacks empathy, doesn’t recognize





Art





or love





or fleeting time





or beauty





Depression is a cage that I shout meaningless words out of,





fake platitudes





in hopes no one else falls into the cage next to me





I’m fine!





You’re fine,





you’re fine, baby girl





you’re fine…





I love you





it’ll be okay





It’ll be okay is tattooed beneath my skin





so that I don’t forget these





lines to a play that I rehearse and repeat,





back to the world that asks





Are you?





Okay?





I look down to the scars I once cut





but can’t cut again; they’ll see





Children learn from watching





so I don’t show,





I tell…





I tell lines





I tell them the lines I need to tell





I tell them,





Though the world is burning around us





and women will never be safe





and human lives don’t matter





cattle for the breeding grounds or





simply to slaughter to the gods of capitalism





Stop!





don’t say that…





don’t project the hopeless…





Read the line





Read the provided line





not the truthful line





of scars….





It’ll be okay





I’m





Okay





You’ll be…





… will you be?





Okay?





Depression is lying to loved ones





so you never have to worry that you’ll be





their downward spiral,





the same scythe of your mother’s loss





that cut you down





Cause we’re all Ok





we just need to…





I just need to





Remember my lines



	


	



					
						


	

		
Poetry 4-8-21

				

			Posted on  by sereichert		

			


	
	
			


	

		






Today is my mom, (Christine Wickstrom’s) birthday, so before I get all poetic on your asses, let us take a moment: 









Dear Mom: 





Here’s to another trip around the sun with the woman who loved, fed, raised, and let me survive my teenage-hood. You’re a spiritual whirlwind, a passionate crusader, the raucous laughter I hear in my own voice, and the sturdy rock on which I was built. Also, sorry for using the word ‘asses’ up there…and again just now. Have a lovely day, take naps, eat good food, enjoy the sunshine and the new dawn of spring. I love you to the moon and back again.







And now, this:












Photo by Felix Mittermeier on Pexels.com





Old Soul

They used to say, 
over coffee cups
behind her turned back
that she was an old soul

Even at six
when she struggled to sit pious
in pews too hard for anything
but retribution

Or dreamed beside lazy rivers
in tall, cool grass
feet barefoot and setting roots
in worship of the bigger gods

An old soul, she thought, was
used, misused, tarnished
and dented
worn thin like soles 
on the bottom of shoes

She thought her soul 
looked like beaten leather
unfairly pocketed
and scarred with use

Everyone else got a new one
right out of the box
the day they were born
the 'new soul' smell still clinging 
smooth, shiny, glowing 
with kinetic possibility

But what choice did she have?
Old was far better than none.

Six turned to sixteen
and all the years blended 
in hues of decisions
and roads taken

the ones where she felt,
memories walked beside her
and footsteps recalled 
and every where felt like home
in far off rooms of her old soul.

Sixteen to thirty
and on to forty
and on, and on
and her dented soul carried
tears and laughter 
just as well as any other

better

Because new souls, she learned,
were breakable and brittle
they faltered in storms and
dented at the slightest strike

In the same span of years
the glittering glow of the new
was thin like a grocery store bag, 
plastic urban jellyfish, aimless 
and at the whim of every breeze that blew

But old souls
are stalwart souls

They grounded roots
feet in dirt and 
sturdy branches rising.
Fingers tasting every flavor of life
without being swayed to break.

Old souls have lived it all before
and are wise to the ways
of errant breezes and
the fickle affections of years.

Old souls, she learned, came back
loved and experienced once more,
into only those vessels 
strong enough to carry them.