Poetry
From the Cradle to the Pen
And back to the earth again — A poem
The firing of the neurons
that sends the message to the brain,
of pain
of sheer agonizing pain
was the same fire
That was the fuel for the dry wood of her creativity.
And so lit through the pain
She writes and she paints.
Defying weakening muscles
and creaking bones.
Arthritis,
he said.
The Man who heals but cannot heal
Since it’s only the body that can
the same dying bag of blood and bones
using the power it has.
Each of its thirty-seven trillion cells
Reach for wellness
If only we ask.
Be it through our hot tears
On a warmed keyboard,
by cold hands,
crippled fingers
soon to be useless.
Endless pain,
more creation.
So thin a line
Between pain and pleasure
Between bliss and power
Between love and hate
More love, less hate
Less pain, more gain.
Weak fingers,
holding a strong brush
making bold strokes
on the empty canvas of her soul.
Each shot of pain
like endorphins to the brain,
results in an ecstasy
that is manifested
in her creation.
The reds for the fire.
The blue for the desire.
Browns for life in autumn.
The yellow bares the soul.
Green, no green,
no youth, no newness.
Just browns and reds
And pain and death,
death to the body,
life to the creation
The only salvation.
For the memory of a life spent
in constant suffering.
No release —
though begged for.
Crying out to the heavens in the dead of night —
that word.
Crying for death,
for the release of the soul
from a spent body
of browns and reds.
Blues now used.
Transferred to the creation,
Created.
And as the last drop of paint
kisses the now filled canvas
of browns and reds,
the artist,
the creator
looks at her creation
and sees a life well spent.
© I. Trudie Palmer
Thanks for reading my story. I have quite a few more on Medium, just click here, or better yet, see below a story that has links to all that were CfFD’ed under different topics ranging from spirituality to sexuality.
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