Back in April, at the peak of NaPoWriMo, I vowed to do a poem a day in honor of Domestic Violence Awareness Month. Today marked the Day of Unity, the first day of DVAM. Please take a moment to visit my new blog and read more about my pledge, and help me to spread the word. This is the introduction, and Day One’s writing has already been published.
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This “blog” has been substantially trimmed down. Not many words left here at all. Years of fail and struggle have been removed from this digital wasteland. Follow me over to my new blog, if you’d like, where I am working on a “new beginning.”
A message from Anonymous
Jessica Stephenson--I want to tell you how much you captured pain that I am familiar with in your Third Sunday Blog Carnival untitled poem. I just didn't see any way to comment on it there or here. I am retired on disability at age 61 due to all you say, complicated by sciatica and other pinched nerve effects. Good luck on diagnosis. Getting out of an anxious environment sure helped. And meanwhile, your poetic voice is a gift! Thank you.
This awesome response to a recent feature of my poem about Fibromyalgia in Third Sunday BC is one of the reasons why I need a good switch. Accessibility. Communication. Camaraderie.
I am slowly migrating to WordPress. Backing up my work here and moving on! See you there, I hope?
I’m going to start a big girl blog. Fare thee well, tweenies.
Tomorrow I will be featured here in edition Volume 1, No. 5. Please take the time to check out this fairly new and thriving community showcase blog curated by Adriene Joyce. There are so many lovely things there to be found, and I am thrilled to be contributing!
I wind myself up into the wince and the ache, and hesitantly reach for a new prescription. I told you, I can feel this weather in my muscles and bones. I know well before the lightning comes. If I were to fall asleep, then I may not be aware of this pill burning an ulcerous mantra over and over again into my stomach. Ah, but to be numb for a day! You, who chose the easy road between your Point A and Point B— do you feel the lightness and elasticity as your inner pulleys grease themselves along? You, who stands knee-deep in marsh and shiver your way into a minimal existence— does the pain resurface in the night, masked as a disease whose cure is unobtainable? Tell me I have not suffered alone. How can a disease such as this exist, to which there are only symptoms in multiplication, and yet it has no cause and simply exists between the lock-and-key grid work of the mind? I would like to know that I may give my blood and be viewed so hollow, that only this one seed remains clear, and that it may be pitted from me in hunger as a peach is pitted for consumption, and that I may be fruit and fleshed again one day, able to rise from the ground with a natural sweetness from the body of earth, and synthesize a band of warmth from the sun into this cool, dying slab of ache that my body has kneeled to worship.
©2012 Jessica Stephenson All Rights Reserved