Autumn brings the cold damp ache of emptiness. Oppressive exacerbator of loneliness. Shorter days, longer nights, still alone.
Muffled voices from the all-night TV no longer provide indifferent companionship. The bed refuses to cooperate; no comfort in sleep’s escape. Couldn’t I have passed first, or at the same time? It was Autumn then too, raining.
Solitary stranger in the mirror looks back, expressionless. Memories of emotions never again. Turn away. Shaking hand wipes a silent tear.
Once young with dreams. Questions of purpose fulfilled. Love, regret, resolve, acceptance.
I stumbled across a couple interesting videos the other day, and learned that they were examples of Poetry Slam. I’d never heard of the art form prior to that. Interesting, and entertaining stuff.
“A poetry slam is a competition at which poets read or recite original work (or, more rarely, that of others). These performances are then judged on a numeric scale by previously selected members of the audience.
Typically, poetry slam is highly politicized, speaking on many issues including current social and economic issues, gendered injustices, and racial issues. Poets are judged not only on the content of their slam but the manner of delivery and passion behind their words.”
Here’s the two videos that caught my attention. The performances are by Taylor Mali, a former school teacher:
For those interested, here’s a link for PoetrySlam.com, a non-profit organization who’s mission is to, “…promote the performance and creation of poetry while cultivating literary activities and spoken word events in order to build audience participation, stimulate creativity, awaken minds, foster education, inspire mentoring, encourage artistic statement and engage communities worldwide in the revelry of language.”
Sometimes at night I check the closets when I go to bed.
Sometimes I wonder if the demons are just in my head.
Alone in darkness I hear footsteps walk across the floor,
and I awake to find there’s no one knocking at my door.
My mother told me that it runs within the family,
to hear and see things that to you are not reality.
What were the seeds ancestors planted which from now I reap?
Sometimes I pray dear lord for just one decent night of sleep.
I have no fear of the unknown,
and death does not concern me.
But I am scared of what I know,
for what I know is my reality.
Another night I lay in silence waiting patiently,
and wonder when tonight the voices will come calling me?
I press my palms together and fall down upon me knees;
Please dear God make it stop, this clairvoyant insanity.
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