Mind over Medium

Art, Literature, and Pseudo-Science

Tag: sadness


Shadows and dust blew through the cracks in the house,
A red and yellow and grey haze sifting over the people inside.
It refused to settle, but hung in the air.
We breathed it.
We ate it.
It was in everything, like God.
It stung and we bled from our noses, our mouths.
We could not escape the storm.
Gummed tape, wet rags, paper shades:
It was too late: building a levy after the floodwaters were at our necks,
But there was no rush, no water, no respite.
Only powder and heat, and hatefulness.
Someone grabbed a knife from the block counter
I think it was my brother
And he stabbed viciously at the air, screaming
“I hate you! I hate you! Get out of my house!”
The dust barely parted around the blade
He dropped the knife aside
It clattered on the floor and he hung his head.
You cannot kill the dust.
It was part of us now, like God.
There was no atheism for the dust, for it covers everything
And flies faster than cloud or bird.
It eats everything it comes to, consumes, strips the flesh.
We are its sacrifices.

– February, 2012


The Lamentations of a Thistle

Finding a picture stings
As though you had died.
Seeing them, I cannot touch you.
In many, I do not know you.
It is so different.
You are so happy.
Somehow my face begins to burn with shame
And I must look away.
It hurts like death,
But without the glory.
There is no acceptance of my mourning.
I am so hopeless and disgusting,
I must withdraw.
A vulgar thistle infecting a garden of roses.
No one speaks of me.
Nor offers me solace.
They only whisper in judgmental tones
Or remind me disdainfully that,
“Others have it worse”
Then they cut me off at the root,
Leaving my raggedy, unfinished flower
To burn in the sun.
Any seeds I had scattered are too young to survive.
While you, elsewhere,
Bloom without me,
The most celebrated in the garden
Blessed with brightness and unfettered by thorns
Treasured by the gardeners and revered by the passersby.
I sought to grow in your sight
And strove only to emulate your beauty.
It was beyond my meager ability.
I was only a weed in your glory.
A sad little shadow stealing your sustenance
And trying to hide my ignominy behind your grandeur.
I was never worthy to grow in such a garden–
Able, perhaps,
But never deserving.
Such a garden is only a dream,
A flower such as you: an esoteric angel.
I miss your petals,
The cool canopy of your leaves.
It is so harsh here on the sidewalk,
Barely able to murmur a scream:
“I blossomed under your shade,
When we were young, we spoke as equals.
Now I am grown.
They have cut me off at the root
And the sun burns me with his accusing gaze.
Who in the garden can help me?
You are too deep in the soil.”


– February, 2011