Survivors Poetry

Crucible

At the heart of every matter,
Stands the Crucible of past and present.
Sitting as I am this very moment,
Torn and seared,
By the ebb and flow of emotions
So hard and clear that,
I now have a new colour for loss.
Cold and velvet black.
Intimate now, as never before, naked and afraid.
Of what’s in me.
That needs to come out.
Will I burst from the effort?
Of birthing a pain so Raw,
as to take its own teenage form.
A name and deeds where before was dull and vague
Aches and needs.
A misplaced thorn, somewhere in the body of thought.

In the past, I have skirted the shores of this dank lake,
Avoiding seeing beyond the immediate storm,
No mean feat, to navigate the world of monsters as a child.
I passed them all to memory, in the greener fields of adult time.

But that ridge that divides the past from now is breached,
They come back to me, in the Cauldron of swirling memory,
Flashing brightly with explosive emotion. I weep.
Such acid tears for one so young and put upon.
Impotence and the shackles of time, prove, finally.
No wrong can be righted, for this one small boy.

As the Demons huddle nearer, I am lost,
In the size of their number – still, no fair measure can rule it.
As incalculable as the lost joy of a stolen childhood
What compensation is there beyond that we survived?
Only to sit here in this Crucible of my dour experience.
A re-life on an old pain, and only salty tears to clean the wound.
No shortage there, of punishing stings for sinful deeds.
As memories flood the hours, encrypted in melodies,
Taunting and pinching a sleep weary soul to distraction.

Let me sleep now for I have no more left tonight.
Even the marauders must need their rest too.
I hear tell that, Even the Devil gets a holiday.

More than the Sum of My Sins

Let the Universe be told.
I am more than just the Sum of my Sins.
More than just a syndrome.
May I remember that from here on in.

I have a heart that yearns for good,
Is capable of good
And has shown it many times.
May I remember that as well.

I have a soul as precious to me as diamonds,
I deny that mine has died – just hidden.
Deep and dark
Where the rage of War cannot reach.

I’m not stained, just bruised from the company I keep.
But I can heal when the blows stop.
I may not win, but I will fight, and you will know my name,
If you strike at me again.

I pray for better judgement before peace,
Because with one I can get the other.
And with either
I will rid myself of those burdens
That have weighed me down so far.
To douse the fires of frenzied thought,
And listen for the long sigh of inner silence.
In the summer of my thoughts.

I will rest one day, but not today.
Because there is much to do to set to rights,
This hatred of the heart.
I take back my life from the vice of worry,
No longer will I let you clamp and twist
Your cold and clammy hand on the spark of love within.

I will take loneliness before loathing,
And Dignity before disgrace,
From this day on, please, help me God.
And I will stay the dagger from my very own heart,
And let the child go free.

From Scar Tissue to Liberation

I bring my pain to this table,
That you might notice the joy in your life.
Breathe easy for a moment
 and count your fortune.

I bring respect for you,
To warm against the cold places where there is none.
Stand tall and bask at the hearth of giants.
Fortified against the wildest storm.

I bring compassion to this table,
That we might both ward off hypocrisy.
Take a moment to set your compass.
The seas from here are broad.

I bring my tolerance,
because with it we open doors to ourselves.
Feel Safe and stay a while.
Strength will witness itself.

I bring my arms that we may hold each other dear,
For fear of losing life itself.
Be sure you will never be alone with the truth.
Not until the very last of us has spoken.

I bring elbow grease, to break the ground
And tears, to water the seeds of a new way.
Will you not walk with me for while?
And see where this can grow.

And to this table I bring my horror too,
That you might help me with mine.

My humour is my gift of thanks
returned for tender mercies shown
Such treasures, time after time,
Nourish the soul within me to endure.

I bring my story so that I can see the truth,
Then together, we might light a way ahead.
For surely we are not the first
Or last to walk this path.

I bring my sins and all their gory ways,
To learn the meaning of being me.
And with that; peace in measure truly deserved.
Is mine to take, and mine to own,

I bring my understanding to add to the one,
We all create by being here.
A knowledge and strength as yet untested
by our fledgling limbs.

I bring my hope in abundance,
That you might take what you need.
For, while one heart can speak its pain
You will always find the spring.

And so it is, in such magnificent company
We Strike a fine blow for that youngster inside.
From tears to joy, from wound to health.

Run – Run the storm is coming

The coming storm was born in the warm fetid waters of my past.
I can no longer run to escape its bite, must not run.
For the time I bought has only intensified the cell,
Now a category five and building in the shell of my heart.

On beautiful alien shores, I see the clouds gathering,
On feet of clay, I stand and turn to face the scouring winds.
Both fear and longing - for the pain to destroy me quicker than I can do myself, one cigarette at a time. So slow, so shameful.

Destruction in the hope of rebirth, clinging to the wicked wish, that wind and hail will blast away the ash in my heart.
Wishing to cease to be, the hated one. The damaged youngster, the crippled child.

Ineffectual and impotent, clear at last to accept the wreckage of my life.
Already scattered, the feeble shutters that hide my truth.
Silent no more, the damaged youngster will wail a life long scream – a scream with no end.
A blast so keen, that we will stand naked before those accusations.
Of abandonment and pain, actions so brutal, must by Newtons Law, exact a brutal rebound to even the score.

Like it or not, The Accounting has come, the balance sheet will hide no more fraud. And when that hurricane finally lands, will there be enough of me left to stand and see the clarity in the eye.

Will there be a life left for rebuilding, or just the bleached bones scoured by those men, who pecked and tore at my body, my source of love and more? Feasted on morsels too precious to lose, too tainted to keep.

I stand alone, for no-one can be in me to help.

Poems by Christopher Davies

For articles by Christopher click here.