Bridging features creative works of prose and poetry on the In the Loop blog of Let's Check-in
Ghosts and Haunting
Enter October. Like swirling Autumn leaves that eddy, rustle and and wisk against grass,
asphalt or sidewalk, a once green past has dried.
I smile recalling the beauty of my resplendent shades of red, yellow or orange.
But, some memories take a deeper step towards darkness, distort and cut.
Chasing thoughts, whether long ago or recent. Sometimes they whip around in a circular fashion that twist and curdle like sour milk in coffee.
Goblins of the soul. Battles waged. Insults to the soul. Betrayals to the heart. Wounds to the spirit. Punishment to the body. Lashes to the mind.
Escaped from the torture, but not freed. Trauma’s playback is relentless. Sweeping up in unexpected waves during rest, crushing torrents of distraction during activity.
Like brakes slammed.
Like muscles jerked.
Like a back stiffened.
Like a neck that tenses.
Like a shoulder with a knot.
Like an acidic burn you notice in your pelvis.
Like an exhausted body craving rest.
Like the haze of a thick mental fog.
What if I…?
This is what he...
And, then they...
You know what she...
I need to…
The wind whistles raw and sharp. It burns, blinds, disorients.
For comfort, the body tenses.
Arms fold to wrap around the torso. Shoulders arch upward as the back
slumps to meet the challenge.
This isn’t happening NOW.
It happened already.
But, THIS is happening now.
It never ended.
I am still in It.
Bare trees offer majestic beauty.
Branches like arms upraised to their creator.
Stripped of their leaves, perhaps their crowning glory, they
Stand with the hope and promise for additional life.
After the cold, the dark, the rains and the snows,
Green may return. There’s a chance.
But the tree, is always a beautiful tree -- regardless
Of the changes in season. Is there not
Beauty in strength? In resilience? In humility?
In being? Illustrating survival, the tree’s
Shape silently nods to a journey, for good or for
There is only one way. It is through.
Clouds morph above as a sign of the temporal nature of life.
While storms build and pass, they etch the landscape and our
Own lives well beyond the tangible.