Pinhole View: Prose 1

My heart, so heavy.
My heart, so empty.
My well of love, dry.

I look inside.
I look to God.
I look
but my heart remains low.

Where has my passion gone?
Where has my life been thrown?
Where can I find the way?

Father, daily I cry within my heart.
Daily I want to run away.
Daily I feel a desperation.

I know not where to turn.
I know not how to find answers.
My tears fall continually inside.

Will you hold my hand?
Will you manifest what I am to do?
Will you make it clear?

I ask timidly,
with doubt of my every move.

My heart, so very heavy.
My heart, so very sad.
My heart, so very empty.

My soul, flooded with tears.....


judithpiper
june, 2005
__________________

I left The Way in October, 2005, four months after this poem was written. I had found a place to turn.

This poem is Prose 1 of 3. All three parts can be read here:
Pinhole View: A Trilogy

Prose 2 can be read alone here: Pinhole View: Prose 2
Prose 3 can be read alone here: Pinhole View: Prose 3
__________________

If Only

I thought I was through
the grief, the loss, the longing.
I guess it comes in stages
o'er and o'er again.

How many times must I cross this bridge?

I cannot seem to stop
this river's rise and swell.
A life its own, it spills over.
My soul once again overwhelmed
with sorrow, grief, tears of deep remorse.

I wish I had a dam
to somehow contain the swell.
But I don't
So I guess I'll let it spill.

march 10, 2007
~me

***

So much grief after leaving a "family" one's known for almost 3 decades.
So much grief even in reunions with past parted loved ones from the time in the family, reunions that occur after leaving the family, reunions that are joyful...yet bittersweet.
The grief needs to be honored; otherwise it might fester.
Festers are not healthy.
***

vapor pressure

My stomach gnarls as i read
smooth words drip
one letter at a time
from finger tips
tapping 'cross your key board

You write of wounds
your own and others
yet what of those
you've inflicted
amidst your so-called
justified tone

A hypocrite of hypocrites
one who offers healing
while exacting harms
without remorse
dismissing the inflictions
as inconsequential

Such can cause my blood to boil
perhaps burning away the chaff
of my own self-hatred
to which you at one time
offered solace

Your genius calls
and you are heeding
i'm sure some will profit
i pray it be not at the expense
of another wounded soul


judithpiper
12/16/10

***

When I read certain essays or articles or sharings from people who offer help and healing among those who are in process of recovery and rediscovery after cultic involvement... When I read certain pieces penned by authors with whom I've had personal and intimate experience of their own hypocrisy exacted toward myself and/or others that I know... When I read such, I sometimes find myself feeling rage, leaning toward a feeling of hatred, of their words, and even of them. Their words to me lack authenticity, even though the words may sound compassionate, smoothly laced with honey.

No doubt, the authors have helped some people...maybe many...and perhaps even me. But then The Way helped me too. Other organizations, by whom people have been harmed, have helped other people...and initially maybe helped even those who ended up harmed.

As I've stated elsewhere: In any so-called service/support organization, if people are expendable, therein the org is fraudulent.

We all harm others at some point. It is the denial, the dismissing of those harms, that makes the hypocrite.

At times, I imagine most all humans find themselves as the hypocrite. Hopefully we own up and thus become more Hippocratic than hypocritic.

The catharsis of the keyboard. It doth help me when anger tries to squeeze its grip upon my heart toward vengeance.

deja vu

silenced
pen paralyzed
murdered muse

wishing
it were a dream

and I'd awake
tomorrow
to discover it
untrue

daggers

Had a hard day today
A friendship died
And I'm very confused as to why or how

I endeavored to open the door
To talk, to understand
But the door was shut with my face in it

It hurt

Apparently I am responsible for the death
The friend told me
"You destroyed our friendship"

And I don't even know how I committed the murder

I never want to burden a friend
With the responsibility they need to defend me
I don't make a good defense barrier

Maybe that means I am a rotten friend
Maybe I can't be trusted
And now my heart wonders

Can it trust itself again


08/02/10
~me

~*~

Don't feel like writing the context. It is what it is. Though I am stunned by it all. I feel raw and numb at the same time. It will take some time to not shake inside. That shake that comes when I feel I can't trust myself.

Unfinished

Oil can in aged hand
The Tender slicks the gears
"They rust when they have sat awhile
Moistened by only tears."

"I'll get them working one at a time
Squeak and turn until they're smooth
Time, patience, no rush at all
They'll almost be like new."

We sit and watch his nimble hands
Abe and Nanna at my side
His confidence always near
His quiet way soothes our minds

february 25, 2009
me
***
 It remains unfinished.

But, The Tender has his own blog.  (*wink*)

Safe Place

Photo ~
dismembered, napalmed leg
Dream ~
dismembered, bloodied appendage

I have been dismembered

To re-member is to bring back together
It's o.k. to remember

I am not in physical danger
I am safe
My physical needs are met

I am not in emotional danger
I can call for support
JK, John, friends

Sometimes I hurt
From what I am not sure
Just deep, deep pain

It's o.k. to cry in this safe place

june 29, 2009
judithpiper