When I couldn’t write an album of music to illustrate the way I had felt about the years I’ve lived through an abusive childhood with my father, I found a place to rest and rumble in writing a memoir. After I wrote the memoir, I found that I was lyrically restless, I had the songs. I spilled them into an album within a short few months. After I wrote that album, I wasn’t done with what was happening. There were bodies of water all over, surrounding me. I found myself caught in poetry. I began my first chapbook, “Black Pearls”, a series of work that has come from some of the deepest parts of my heart and soul. When I finished writing those twenty-something poems, I kept writing, I kept at it. I wrote until I couldn’t keep my eyes open.
I have since then, written a script, some short stories, and am now into my fourth chapbook of poetry. A lot of the work is caught up in hopes to be published, but I have decided to keep one chapbook for myself here, where I will share with you the bits and parts of me that have laid low, for years upon years.
“Flower Viewing” is just that. A gathering, a place, where I’ve come to love and appreciate the view of my flowers, all of my wildflowers, the ones that bloom in my dreams, the ones that guitars sing about in songs that you can barely stand or sit to listen to, the ones that further heartfulness and love for peace of mind. One dream I had while writing the memoir stemmed this- I was sitting under a Cherry Tree, while someone handpicked cherries and brought them to me, one by one. I had been crying and the sun still shined, the clouds still rolled, people still passed and I got up and I still went.
Thank you for reading.
I craved him at rest
A militant handwritten accord of his home in my lost time
I’d loyally borrow his torment and don them
as my own honored reserve
committed to hollowing out the fruits
of hateful and intolerant white noise
the vast corruption of lost aspirations in my rosy head
Had there been a phone to hold to the trickle of my bleeding mum lips
my hankerings would have had nothing more to be said.
by Bethany Saint-Smith