Driver's Seat

Driver's Seat

3/7/12

My life was like an RC car

Which other hands controlled

To drive some course, used well or ill,

And race to win them gold.

But I am not an RC car

To handle or control

My life: my course; not race or fight,

None else dictate my goal.

I may not take the route you'd take

Nor choose your sights to see

If, gypsy wander, so I seem

That, too, is my right to be.

For driver's seat I boldly claim -

I've OnStar with the Lord

And back-seat drivers mind your place -

I'll drive to my accord.

Share friendly smiles and honked 'hellos'

Post warning signs at need

But please respect my driver's seat

And I'll respect your tweed.

The Wind Will Blow

The Wind Will Blow

(Written 11/2008)

All this way the wind once blew -
Through snow cloaked trees and dusky blue,
O'er heathered fields, past shady glen,
To mountain cave from humid fen,
In sea-storm gale and lover's breath -
But then to die at kiss of death
That stilled the free-flown life of youth
And perished in that mortal truth.


Yet hope there is of breath once more
If one could find that open door
'Twixt death and life, that promised way,
To call forth light to sacred day -


E'en so it stands, the way is clear -
The price was high, the cost so dear.
Now portal'd death that reaches still
Shall hold no more its empty kill.
For time will come when time will cease,
When all held breaths will know release,
And all this way the wind will blow,
And eyes will see, and hearts will know
From Whom this gift and whence it came
Confessing e'er His holy name. 

Speak For Me

As much as I dislike the emotional hijackings of pretension I see too often in poetry, I've found myself writing in that form in spurts of collections over the years. The Junior High period (mostly church and people ponderings), the High School period (mostly assignments from creative writing), the Breaking from Home period (fighting my way through abuse to hope), and the Sporadic period (where I write less often, at random, of late). This post is to introduce my opening of a new blog to start sharing the Breaking from Home collection, which I titled Speak for Me.

I wrote these over a period of about four years, from mid 2005 to early 2009. This covers the period from shortly after my mom died, through moving, paternal re-marriage, moving away from home, breaking from home, and moving even farther away from home. It covers a lot of emotions as the ones I couldn't write out in my normal journals would crescendo until they came out in poetry form. They express frustrations, trying to hold on, feeling trapped, mad at feeling scared, and almost always work through till I can find a way to keep hoping for a better time.

Some of the poems have easily shareable themes. Just One Day is the first that comes to mind, and I've already shared that on this blog. They are all very personal and I've been conflicted between pulling it all into a presentable form and resisting actually presenting it. I'm still scared to open this up because a lot of people were oblivious to this part of me and even more people resent the idea that a person can be so extremely traumatized without the socially comprehended forms of physical and sexual abuse.

Sometimes I try to explain the effects of my experiences as brainwashing. Life was often an active battle to simply retain my identity, to not disappear into a mind-less, being-less, soulless slave. The Speak for Me collection is very much my active fighting to survive. PTSD is recognized as trauma that physically threatens ones life and thereby alters the body's reaction to stimulus which recalls the originating trauma. What I survived threatened to erase me, not just my physical body. I believe this kind of abuse is rampant. It is pernicious precisely because it isn't talked about and is ignored when outsiders catch a glimpse. "It's none of my business," is the usual thought response.

How often I wished someone had spoken up and told me I had a right to think what I think and feel what I feel. That what was happening was not ok and was not my fault. That an understanding haven would have been offered where I was wanted and welcome and understood. Instead, I hid in my car because I couldn't face going inside yet and had nowhere else to go. I had imaginary conversations with the closest things I had to friends to try to work through the craziness that was my life because everyone was too busy to want to be bothered by me. I hated looking in the mirror and seeing what I was taught was a disgusting person. I can face mirrors now. I can see me, now. But pictures still make me feel a bit sick. I was left alone, without family, with church as my only refuge, but resented and abandoned repeatedly by people who had no interest in slowing down enough to see that my unusual reactions had a terrible cause. Instead, they just saw them and me as unwanted irritation.

And so, even though I am nervous, I am sharing this because someone needs to start the conversation. Someone needs to say - these are the emotions. And those trapped in the nightmare I finally escaped need to know it can be done, even if no one else decides to notice, care, or try to help. I did it with God by my side, guiding my understanding until I was read to break from home and learn to feel safe in freedom. Speak for Me is my journey during this difficult time.

The scriptures that introduce each poem are almost all the very verses that helped me reach the poems' conclusions I needed to keep going. They were very much my life-line. The afterwords are reflections on the topic or the events which prompted the poems. The new blog can be found at:

hearthewordsunspoken.blogspot.com.

Just One Day

Fear thou not; for I am with thee:

be not dismayed; for I am thy God:

I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee;

yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.

Isaiah 41: 10

Hope can seem elusive
When the Evil One draws near
He'd have us focus far ahead
On all that we might fear.

For the future seems uncertain
When looked at from today
Each dream that we might hope for
Could go wrong in every way.

Thus he would entrap our minds
Held fast by fear's intent
That we might re-direct our lives
And, thus, our dreams prevent.

But the Lord gave us the answer
Spoken long ago
That shows how to hold onto
The dreams our hearts still know.

He said, "Take one day at a time
Don't borrow future fears
There's work enough to do right now
Don't waste those precious tears.

"Satan would have you think I can't
Do all I said I would -
I promised I would do the rest
Once you've done all you could.

"So don't worry about tomorrow
We'll get there as we will
There's no need to leap mountains
Just work on this day's hill.

"And as you walk on, day by day,
Though far your dreams appear
Have faith in me, walk by my side,
And soon all will be clear.

"Do not fear the Dark One
I'll show the way that's true
You see, I was here long ago -
I walked it once for you.

"So let the future wait for us
We'll get there as we may
For now there's just one moment
For now there's just one day."

(written 1/3/06)

Matt 6:34 ; 3 Nephi 13:34

I still find myself needing to remember this at times.

In Matthew 6:34 it states ,"Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."

Sometimes we get so caught up in everything we're trying to work out just right, or anticipating any potential problem to avoid negative attention, or focusing on the magnitude of the mountain ahead of us that we can get paralyzed with the stress of it all. This scripture shows that today, now is what we need to concern ourselves with. It is well to plan and prepare, but don't waste the now on the future. We have enough things to care about today without adding tomorrow's burdens on top of it. Even better is the 3 Nephi version where it ends, "sufficient is the day unto the evil thereof." Now, not only can we stay focused, we also have the assurances that we'll be able to handle it even if it's just a day at a time

Help Will Come

D & C 68: 6

Wherefore, be of good cheer, and do not fear, for I the Lord am with you, and will stand by you; and ye shall bear record of me, even Jesus  Christ, that I am the Son of the living God, that I was, that I am, and that I am to come.

Help Will Come

2/18/07

No matter how alone you feel

Or, in truth, you may well be

Or how you cry out in your soul

For one to trust continually.

No matter how you search and look

And still there is no-one

Have faith, be still, do not lose hope

For always, help will come.

The source, each different, yet the same

The Lord works through the ones who will

Each help made equal to each need

Shows us the Lord is faithful still.

He sends one soul to listen well

Another to suggest

And when there's no-one to give hope

By His help we'll be blessed.

So though heart, faith and hope are tired

And still you have no-one

Have faith, be still, do not give up

And hope, for help will come.

Coming from the family problems that so dominated my life, I do not and have not had the family support that I watch so many others regularly fall back on. All the same, there has always been the help needed when something was beyond my own capabilities. Sometimes I could talk to one friend or another, sometimes I happened across a random reference that helped me understand, sometimes a random stranger appeared more than willing to help, sometimes  my dreams would give me perspective, sometimes it was simply a blessing of peace. But I was never left alone by Heavenly Father. And I promise that so long as you want Him there, He will never leave you alone either. He does not always give the answer we want as quickly as we want, but He will always be there to give us the help we need.

The Blind Men and the Elephant

The Blind Men and the Elephant
John Godfrey Saxe (1816-1887)

It was six men of Indostan To learning much inclined, Who went to see the Elephant (Though all of them were blind), That each by observation Might satisfy his mind.

The First approached the Elephant, And happening to fall Against his broad and sturdy side, At once began to bawl: "God bless me! but the Elephant Is very like a WALL!"

The Second, feeling of the tusk, Cried, "Ho, what have we here, So very round and smooth and sharp? To me 'tis mighty clear This wonder of an Elephant Is very like a SPEAR!"

The Third approached the animal, And happening to take The squirming trunk within his hands, Thus boldly up and spake: "I see," quoth he, "the Elephant Is very like a SNAKE!"

The Fourth reached out an eager hand, And felt about the knee "What most this wondrous beast is like Is mighty plain," quoth he: "'Tis clear enough the Elephant Is very like a TREE!"

The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear, Said: "E'en the blindest man Can tell what this resembles most; Deny the fact who can, This marvel of an Elephant Is very like a FAN!"

The Sixth no sooner had begun About the beast to grope, Than seizing on the swinging tail That fell within his scope, "I see," quoth he, "the Elephant Is very like a ROPE!"

And so these men of Indostan Disputed loud and long, Each in his own opinion Exceeding stiff and strong, Though each was partly in the right, And all were in the wrong!

As found at http://www.constitution.org/col/blind_men.htm

You say, Sir, you hate Christmas

You say, Sir, you hate Christmas

List grievances not few

But I wonder if you have thought

These grievances quite through.

There's jangles and there's spangles

Mass frenzy for new toys

But stop to hear the quiet

Of the stable 'midst the noise.

His birth's been near forgotten

Its purpose been replaced

The promise in the life He led

In pop culture now debased.

But that promise holds forever strong

Regardless of the noise

Delight in that, ignore the rest,

Return to Christ-mas joys.

So, please, Sir, don't hate Christmas

But spread the truth drawn here

For Christmas is God's gift, through birth,

To draw His children near.

<written 6/24/2012>

Crumbs From the Master's Table

Floating on the ocean
As sea-craft sail on by
For so long treading water
Too tired to wonder why
The few that let me rest myself
Resented it in turn
As though they thought me negligent
To leave my aching churn.

Perhaps they thought they saw a ship
Not unlike their own
Where safety, love, and family held
And I like traitor flown.
But if there ever was such ship
My place was galley slave
To row or tug or slop or scout
But never freedom gave.

But now cut free the truth is such -
I've ever orphan been
To wander oft from home to home
In hope I'd catch them when
They had a crust of love to share
A welcome, word, or rest
'Fore they recall I'm not their own
And shoo me from the nest.

For orphans live on scavenged meals
And rags and scattered floors
So long as someone finds a need
In extra random chores.
Ever moving, shifting, change
Gives safety and makes stable
By making sure to glean the crumbs
From many a master's table.

<written 2/25/2013>

The Sky Above

The sky above

Is filled with stars

And space and things unknown - 

With other worlds

And other lives

And things we've never known.

Different people

With different homes

And different lives to lead - 

Other chances

Abilities too

With the same living need.

Songs we'd exchange

And stories too

If future meant we met - 

The histories

And tragedies

The ways our lives are set.

What would they say?

What could we tell?

What would we come to know -  

How life combines

All living things

To live and learn and grow.

(Junior High writings)

Pioneers

Tired muscles, strength all but gone,

Yet we must all still travel on,

Mountains ahead that we must breach,

And then beyond, a goal to reach.

A goal for which our loved ones lost,

A goal for which we've paid all costs,

Dreams and goals that we won't forget,

Dreams and goals that will be met.

Handcarts rolling through mud and sand,

Obstacles all along the land,

A winding path, a beaten trail,

We must go on, we cannot fail.

Nights are colder, days are shorter,

We have yet to reach the border,

We greet each day with faith anew,

With dreams and lives to weave when through.

(Junior High writings)

Pharaoh's Heart

The Pharaoh's heart was hardened -

But not by God back when

His servant, Moses came and prayed

The Hebrews be free men

To go and worship God above
Short three days journey hence -
The Pharaoh chose the tyrant's role
Despite the evidence

That God Above was speaking

And fair was the request

But wicked man will not allow

His enemy be blessed.

For thus fault is admitted:
Great fault had Egypt done
When Pharaoh's father ordered death
To each Hebrew newborn son.

And this to cover further ill

As oppressors always fear

The beaten ones might just lash back

If freedom's call they hear.

So he thought to leave them weakened,
Bloodied, docile, broken
Hoping he could make it so
Despite all God had spoken

Pharaoh did not understand

That God cannot be thwarted

So even as he sought control

His strength had been aborted.

Plea by plea ignored, revenged
Then answered in return
By God above who'll not allow
His children be left to spurn

By those who will not heed His voice

But kick against the pricks

Until even Pharaoh's son

And all firstborn fell sick.

Finally Pharaoh chose to think
The Hebrew price too steep
And paid to see them go away
Their neighbors' gems to keep.

Yet even then he saw the work

Of slaves now freed forsaken

And burned inside with anger

At the slight to the Egyptian.

Calling forth his mighty men
They raced to head the hated
All down to the water's edge
Where choice became the fated.

Moses' staff struck down 'mid cries

The water was  held off

The Hebrews fled, Pharaoh's men drowned -

The ultimate price for scoff.

Against the mighty God above
A hardened heart is given choice
To heed or scorn, to hate or hear
The chance held in His voice.

But should one take the Pharaoh's path

Beware what lies ahead

Once hardened heart is set in stone,

Eternal hope's found dead.

Do not leave God's only course
To have you home once more
Be found in soft'ning fires of trial
'Til you hear Him at the door.

Rather let your heart be soft

Be quick to hear His call

You'll find He's there to raise you up

Should Pharaoh seek your fall.

(Started March '12, finally completed today.)

An Eye for an Eye

Trials come and trials go,

People scream and then throw blows,

One cheek smitten, the other turned:

That's a lesson that still needs learned.

Violence will occur, and people will fight,

But we know what to do, and we know what's right.

'An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind',

When one cheek's smitten, please keep that in mind.

(from my junior high collection)

Hi. My name is Katie. I am a poet.

They say the first step is acknowledgement... (think AA confession, added since few seem to catch the reference)

Now that we've all had a chance to laugh at my absurd discomfort, I thought we might move on with the subject. Thanks to a lovely website found at Relative Finder which lets you link up with your LDS Family Tree account and then pulls out the relations to some of the big names in church and world history, I know I can pass some of the blame on a distant relation to T S Eliot and some twelve composer/lyricists of LDS hymns. Not that I claim any significant skill or aspiration in the medium. I just seem to be cursed with a mind that sometimes finds its easiest expression in verse format.

So why does having to admit some poetic tendencies literally make me nauseated? That would be due to this recurring image that I have of the stereotyped 'emo' person at a poetry reading typified from a Home Improvement episode I saw as a child. The Taylor family (likely at mother Jill's urging) sat in disbelief and discomfort while the unrestrained and directionless spewing of emotional wallowing. The only part I recall is one girl standing at the microphone forcefully... cursing (?), "Die. Die! DIE! Go on - DIE!" and Randy retorting, "You first." His attitude rather parallels my own to those who choose to glory in the dark of depression.

Please don't get me wrong, here - depression is a real and serious issue for many people. I do not have it and I can't say I understand it. I have had to deal with some pretty heavy emotional stresses in my life, however, and they even found a great release in the form of poetry. Which leads me to my main complaint with a characteristic often represented in poets: they glory in the underbelly of emotion. Really? Why? What's the point? That happens to be a very quick turn-off for me in writing, music, tv/film, and even in people in general. Case-in-point, I knew a kid some years back with great potential but hung up on some partially disclosed issues of his past. Emotionally, I actually got pretty darn close with him until I realized that it was easier for him to complain about being stuck, not knowing what to do, when it was his move in life. There's a difference in struggling under burdens you can't change that overwhelm you and those that 'surround' you because you're unwilling to get off your duff (no offense to Hillary intended) and do something about it.

Come to think of it, I have a poem about it:

Irritants
November 7, 2008

Make a choice and go
To see where it will lead
Or choose instead to stay,
But "Choose!" I beg, I plead.

And worse yet still is fear
To commit to things unknown.
When did courage come to be
No longer garden grown?

Or then there's blame and fault
To deny a duty's yours.
For others are not meant to be
Assigned your rightful chores.

So leave me then, I pray,
To weed my garden's choice.
But don't be shy to call when
You need a bold, strong voice.

I am actually well aware that it's not always clear-cut from person to person who is truly trapped and who is not. But everyone can act. Even if it is only to look for a way to keep going. Or even just put a voice to the nightmare so it's not all bottled up inside. Such are not how I see the 'emo'. Such cries rend my heart for their pain and leave me sending prayers to heaven on their behalf. I just seem to have no patience for those who make camp in the dark and then complain about it, or worse - glorify it. Yech.

The other nauseating element of poetry was reinforced by my semester of Victorian Literature where we learned of the poets and audience who cared not for substance but for how the sounds could cause swoons. Again: really? 'Who cares if it makes sense so long as it elicits a visceral reaction?' Well... that explains a large majority of modern media, too. There's a fine line running through the idea of "art for art's sake" and I've discovered that it's far more frequent for such claims to fall on the side of the ridiculous. It is not always empty, but I still find less of value when a thing is meaningless.

For example: There are many songs in foreign languages, usually with a certain tonal sound, that I greatly like. Take "Transformation" by Phil Collins from Brother Bear, or "Baba Yetu" by Christopher Tin from the computer game Civilization IV (nope, only know of it from the music - never played it). The first is an Inuit translation of the lyrics and the second is Swahili for "The Lord's Prayer". Both are favorites of mine. Then consider Adiemus by Karl Jenkins (music that came up on the Pandora station). I loved the sound and looked it up to learn what it was saying only to discover it said nothing. It managed to avoid the ridiculous but I simply can't engage on the same level without something to focus the lingual meaning.

There it is. You may disagree. One person I knew had a habit of posting the second type of poetry on facebook as well as her resulting swoons and if she were to see this post, she'd surely be one of those disagreeing. None-the-less, these are the reasons why I always feel a sense of shame at the designation of poet which automatically is applied to one who has ever written in verse. It is something I have consciously been trying to re-frame in my mind as it logically should not be a shameful thing. I remind myself most of all of Eliza R. Snow as a talented and meaningful poet whose works uplift and inspire and show the good poetry can bring. I think of how songs are simply poems put to music and of the music version of Robert Frost's "Walking Through Woods on a Snowy Evening" learned in grade school. I think of the epics of Homer, and yes, it even occurs to me now to think of Shakespeare (having spent four years in a festival city, it'd be embarrassing if I forgot him...). I am trying to change my perception of poets and therefore my connection to poetry. And in writing this post, I'm hoping it'll help it sink in a little deeper. Also, this sets the stage so that I might actually let myself share some of the things I have written over the past sixteen years in possible future posts. Don't expect incredible, but they do all actually say something...