I miss my children ...

In all reality,

I’ve been missing them

For years now.

I became used to it.

Their prolonged absences

The space between glorious reuniting

Allowing my grief the respect it deserved

Carving out the loss

Time between.

Honoring what used to be

Our family

Until it had a place

The space between what was and what will be

A new normal

Coexisting with loss

The space between.

But right now?

Right now I am keenly aware

Their absence

Physical distance seems a plight.

A continent apart

Strikes hard

With the notion

The space between

Bridges the gap

An emotional, continental divide

Distance shifts

It’s tectonic plates

Stirring up ghosts

Picking past

Old wounds

Expertly bleeding my soul

Picturing their faces

When I left.

Again.

Only this time

This time, my children understood

The logic

And circumstance

Necessity over need

And somehow this hurts more

Their loss of innocence ...

The space between time,

Bleeds.

~N.E. Philomèle~ ©️2020

I feel hollow today.

It’s nagging and gnawing

Digging up

And turning over

Years of debris

An excavation

Nostalgic loss so bittersweet,

I can taste it on my tongue

Filling my mouth

And flooding my eyes

With feelings

So raw

They strike a nerve

Igniting memories.

Those initial moments.

The first few days

After giving birth

My belly emptied

It’s precious cargo

In my arms

A life

So deeply wound within my own

A life

So profoundly separate from yours

I cut the cord

Fraying ends

Between

Two precarious edges

Sharp and bright steel

Pressing

Until they converge

The impact of this gesture

Stunning in it’s release

Tying you off

As I wait

For the aftermath

Of your birth

Threadbare and frayed

A life.

To be delivered.

~N.E. Philomèle~ ©️2020

I am different now.

I haven’t been home for nearly 6 years and I absolutely HATE this is the reason.

BUT ...

It is the reason, nonetheless and everything and everyone seems the same in how they deal with life’s losses and tragedies.

A glass (or six) of wine

Or whiskey

For the big hurts

And this definitely counts as a big hurt and whiskey solace ...

But it is not my loss, nor my tragedy and seldom drink anymore

Not after my loss

Not after my tragedy

I am different now.

That is the inevitable and terrible, glorious truth in the aftermath of shattering loss:

You might become “better”

(Eventually)

You might not ...

(Sometimes)

But can count on the fact

YOU WILL be different.

It may not be better, but it will never be the same ... life dictated the terms and it’s on you how you want to play the hand, but right now I think fate can fuck off and eat shit ... but I can sort of already see what she’s trying to show my sister ... but my sister, rightly so, is too blinded by grief and rage, and will be for awhile, to see this right now ...

And because I am different now, I understand this is for her to figure out

In her own way ...

In her own time ...

And the urge is there ... to offer words of wisdom and comfort, but because I am different now, I am wise enough to stay mostly silent and to know nothing I say matters right now

Being here does though. Being present. This truth I know ...

The bittersweet comfort a meal with family while your stomach’s churning and reeling with grief.

It counts.

The sound of their laughter ...

Your own laughter and wry humor, distant to your own ear and acrid on your tongue.

It counts.

The words of wisdom though, or words meant to encourage?

BAD IDEA.

Stay still.

Stay silent.

Listen.

Acknowledge.

But old habits die hard

(The bitter, bitter irony in this statement ...)

And I am NOT this families verbal punching bag for tragedy anymore.

Or any reason, really.

Never was ...

That was “my role,” but they don’t get to dictate “my role”

Not now.

Not anymore.

Because ...

I am different now.

Because ...

I too was so exquisitely broken just three,

short,

years ago

I had no choice other than to

Become

Different

And I am so different now, I don’t know that I can call this place my home now,

And that is so very strange and sad

Yet so very freeing

And all I want my sister to know is:

It will never be the same, but it will be different

But you don’t find that

in the bottom of a whiskey bottle ...

By taking your anger out on others ...

Feeling sorry for yourself ...

Or, with a plan ...

That the best plan when you’ve been completely destroyed and undone by life is to

Surrender to it ...

Let go and revel in the free fall and pain of it all ...

Crawl through the shards of glass and chaos of the final incident that lead to this from all of your choices,

Good

And bad ...

And let it purge you of all of the last remains of shit that stains you until there is

NOTHING left

But raw, naked self.

Vulnerable.

Exposed.

Terrified and determined...

Because all you had and all you knew is

FINALLY gone

And you are

FREE

And that after that, NOTHING can break you because you become so humbled by fate ...

Your pain ...

Your choices ...

Life.

But first you have to get there, and how you get there is your choice to make, if you make the choice at all,

And I hope she does

And the irony in this is ...

I think her partner got this, and he got to die hopelessly and ridiculously, happy and in love ... because he humbled himself until he couldn’t

Some monsters are too big.

I hope my sister’s don’t consume.

It’s now afternoon, and they are sitting around carrying like this morning was

“business as usual”

But I just can’t ... THIS is NOT that.

What THIS is, is

Terrible.

What THIS is, is

Tragic.

What THIS is, is

Chance.

Fate.

Chaos theory math ...

But THIS is NOT that ...

And I get it

I am different now and it’s time for some air.

I need to breathe.

~Amy B. Kalabsa~ ©️2020

It’s COLD today. Even by Midwest standards ... not the polar vortex cold where it’s perma freeze on a frozen tundra cold that the month of January is famous for in Chicago. But the February cold where it teases with stench of spring and moistness in the air and it’s deceptive sun just to lure you outside into it’s predatory grasp and icy fingers licking your tongue and filling your lungs ...

I’d been wandering for over an hour ... the old neighborhood, and this grasp felt welcoming until I realized I’d forgot my gloves and hat ...

I ducked into Garv’s

Only it’s not Garv’s anymore. It’s Lavernge’s

(For the street)

And it’s not the old man, hole in the wall it once was

Complete with cocaine and ladies with ambiguous morals looking for work ...

It’s gentrified.

It’s pretty, actually.

They exposed the old tin ceiling and used dark walnut panels and rich ox blood, colored leather for the majority of its decor ...

It’s as nice as any North side neighborhood of my youth ...

But I can spot the locals ... the ones from this neighborhood or nearby.

It’s not their age,

(40 plus like me)

Or their clothes,

(I look so out of place here, or do I?)

It’s the look.

The look of a blue collar man who’s worked countless hours out in the cold this week.

It’s their hands and their

demeanor ...

It’s this lean over the bar, but a proud, “fuck you” smirk at the hipsters that are starting to fill this place. It’s the, “fuck your, I’m an original ... original as this bar which is GARV’s by the way ya jag off,” face ...

I’ve settled on the fact it’s the smirk and the knowing glance we all make.

I take another sip of my hot tottie ...

Maybe I’m more home than I thought this morning ...

Maybe, just maybe, home is the place and things you carry in your heart because God knows, the world will never stop for you.

God knows ...

~Amy B. Kalabsa~ ©️2020

I woke to the sound of a breaking heart ...

It’s keen lament, shrill and shrewd with it’s blade.

The indescribable

Undeniable

Sound

Humans make

when sorrow threatens to drown.

I woke to the sound of a wailing woman ...

Her strangled cries, gasped and moaned

Fleeing her lungs.

The indescribable

Undeniable

Shrieks

Lovers make

when YOUR heart’s gone stone cold, lying before you On the ground.

I woke to the sound of my sister’s love shattering …

Her, “once upon a time” dreams

Splintered

Erupted

Smoke and ash

The soot of her whimpers,

A tempest tempered

Only by piercing, acrid howls

Clinging heavily to her lips,

her words tumbled,

spilling out from her mouth.

Saturated sound

In waves

Came crashing down today,

dragging her heart

Out to sea …

The undertow left her

Alone.

~N.E. Philomèle~ ©️2020

(Sometimes I think we’ll be the end for each other should we ever get the chance. One, or both of us unraveling, pulling each other’s loose threads, smiling at the wreckage we weave ...)

The End? 

Sometimes,

I think we’ll be the end for each other

(should we ever get the chance).

One, 

Or both of us unraveling, 

(pulling each other’s loose threads).

Giggling,

Smiling at the ruin

(As we come, undone).

*****

Your cut flower has wilted, and it’s left you frenzied ... bending duality in our makeshift garden. 

*****

I am fluid

Liquid pools of melted lust. 

My head is dazed,

and soft.

Yours is torn, 

a jagged lot:  let her gently wake,

or rip your flower’s petals off? 

~N.E. Philomèle~ ©️2020

#theend #flowers #pools #lust #liquid #garden #threads #wreckage #smiling #pdx #pdxpoetry #portland

Today, I lost my job.

Shit canned.

Fired.

L

E

T

Go …

And I find myself,

Curious and relieved.

I should be fucking, terrified right now.

Afterall …

I find myself

Sitting in the dark, nestled in a contemplative womb marveling at fate's irony:

there are no coincidences, and somehow, some strange way, this feels “right.” And there isn't a thing about my life that's felt “right” in a very, long time …

It's a lot.

The twisted mind games with my ex, my ambiguous and mercurial health, my VERY troubled child … my child that's no trouble at all … paired and tangled up with precarious finances thay hangby a frayed and loose thread ... Served upon this plate of shit, with a side of mother's anguish, from which I eat daily ...

with delusive smiles … because it's all I've got,

or rather, it's all I had.

Save for the garnish.

I like to push my alienation to the side … just in case I should find myself

HERE.

Where it all gets too God damn, heavy.

The weight is crushing;

relentless anticipation piled upon my chest, stone by stone.

One stone.

Two stones.

Three stones.

Four stones … fears and woes, spidering across my icy ribs, until they crack.

Splintering the content expertly: the debris that's left in it's searing wake, carves out instinctual ways.

You can only dig so long, but you can still dig yourself a hole.

A way to pass the time.

Seduced by revelation.

A grave to occupy,

alongside your comforting annihilation.

It’s brutal.

Basking in, “ what used to be,”

YOUR life.

Plight comes disguised as your, “clever survival.”

Cunning contradictions that will choke you with obligatory humor and manic wit

Until

You

ARE

Gasping.

On the stench of your own compulsory familiarity.

You've lost

(It is TOO Good damn, HEAVY)

so much, you're left with little else but yourself and you have left is to

L

E

T

Go.

It pokes.

It pricks.

It bleeds.

It bites.

It breaks my bones …

And I KNOW why Bukowski smiled.

***

Yesterday,

I lost my job.

Today I woke, terrified

(to have) found myself

Still,

Curious

and

Relieved.

~N.E. Philomèle~ ©️2020 ©️2019

I floated upon your clever words...

a silvered, sharpened blade.

Bathing in your Holy Waters…

your gaul - wormwood,

an absinthe kiss upon my lips.

Ripening the forbidden fruit…

your shadows - myths,

a gorgeous denigration under your hand.

Consuming, sacred knowledge…

an apple I became - your consort, not your confidante - devoured in your palm.

And you danced upon my tongue like Christ…

your apple laced with cyanide,

spilt the Serpent's seeds.

~N.E. Philomèle~ ©️2020 ©️2018

I floated upon your clever words...

a silvered, sharpened blade.

Bathing in your Holy Waters…

your gaul - wormwood,

an absinthe kiss upon my lips.

Ripening the forbidden fruit…

your shadows - myths,

a gorgeous denigration under your hand.

Consuming, sacred knowledge…

an apple I became - your consort, not your confidante - devoured in your palm.

And you danced upon my tongue like Christ…

your apple laced with cyanide,

spilt the Serpent's seeds.

~N.E. Philomèle~ ©️2020 ©️2018