chewy

Life begins as the ending meets #poem

Life begins as the ending meets

Long forgotten stories of Earth’s bosom,

Clouds roll over abandoned streets

 

Burned sunlight refracts and the crust overheats

Gone beyond the last season, descendants of the issam

Life begins as the ending meets

 

Overhead atmospheric trap door to the planet’s oubliettes

Ghost gardens fill the sidewalks with forgotten alyssum

Clouds roll over abandoned streets

Extinct currency, forgotten in digital decomposed spreadsheets

Greed the downfall, possessions the blissom

Life begins as the ending meets

The planet resets the cosmic scales and ends those who mistreats

Too late humanity abandoned the acquisitiveness hymn

Clouds roll over abandoned streets  

Fires burn and oxygen depletes

Dreams abruptly stopped by cataclysm

Life begins as the ending meets

Clouds roll over abandoned streets.

#FinalisFinibusTractus – #scifi – #poetry #TheEntrusted

Alone,

on the oil-soaked beach,

a monk,

in bright orange robes.

and

a respirator

watched as thousands of streams of steam

diffused

in the red smog-choked sky.

 

 

The job had been described as a death sentence.

 

She volunteered.

 

Along with 10,000 machines,

eight hundred monks

and

four hundred scientists

together they

would bring back the garden

called

Earth.

 

~~~

SRWM

~~~

If you like my work consider becoming a patron via https://www.patreon.com/Steffimcknight

#OBLITUSVERBA – #AMWRITING #WRITINGPROMPTS

When an adult breaks mores of their culture, disciplinary actions are taken. What happens when disciplinary actions are viewed as positives by the person who is breaking the code of the culture?

What does one do when Pain evokes pleasure in a person who is being disciplined? Withhold the pain? I don’t know. Yet the lick of the leather calls to some and it is TABOO.

 

Talk to you soon,

SRWM

 

Photo Curtesy of #LandPhotographyService

If you like my work consider becoming a patron via https://www.patreon.com/Steffimcknight

Butterfly’s Kiss #Poetry

A butterfly’s kiss is a terrible beauty to behold.
When the heat has abated.
Life will never be the same.

A truthful lovers kiss
passed and forgotten
till now…

A gentile touch
a soul arriving
kissed through the skin.

A quickening
truth dawns while the lover is gone
a new existences origin.

The cycle begins anew.

The butterfly lays its eggs
full of souls to be.
Hatch the caterpillars do
to eat
to ponder the life
the future body they will hold.

Fat satiated and contemplative
each a chrysalis to weave
metamorphosis begins.

Within its bed it will think again of life
to begin anew in search of fertile female
to bestow its soul.

Dedicated to Robin.

#oblitusverba – #writingprompts – Word of the day – Deed

What are the deeds and responsibilities of a citizen?
It varies from culture to culture but in my head the biggest deeds a citizen can take are:
1. Vote or share your voice loudly
2. Learn to use a clipboard. (If you missed this live it is worth reading or listening to!)
3. Participate!
4. Feed and talk to your neighbors.
What does it take to fulfill a position in public service?
I live in The United States and I regularly listen to politicians. Right now I am wondering how certain people have been nominated for certain positions. One comedian said, “It is like all the nominations are being put in charge of things they hate.” That is a paraphrase and I can’t remember who said it but it seems true. Wouldn’t it be better to have public servants serving in areas that they are passionate about?

How many people need to follow through with their destiny?

Simply everyone should pursue their passions regardless of perceived obstacles. Those obstacles are the way to  the solution. Keep looking if you are hunting a passion and your personal destiny.
What will it take to do the multitude of deeds to achieve our ideal future?
(My humble opinion?)
Well if you want to get technical each person has an ideal future that is individualized. However, as a collective humanity is in search of an ideal future that is based on collective good, compromise, and individual freedoms.
Peace,
SRWM

Tuesday Night – #PTSD #autism #NICU

Tuesday night was rough.

My son fell down a flight of stairs. Less than ten minutes later he and I were at the ER. I had no coat on and he was glued to my chest all 41 pounds of him. My hands were shaking and I couldn’t focus. The triage nurse guided my hands to the papers to fill out. As many times as we have been in the ER it amazes me how few nurses realize or know that he is profoundly deaf and autistic.

On Ben’s last ER visit he was given a medication that causes serious disorientation and sedation. He did not react well to going back into T1 (Trauma Room 1). It took all of my strength to get him on the bed to be seen by the nurse and doctor.

The poor doctor didn’t know Kiddo’s routine. “You have to look at his ears first, it’s his routine.” Kiddo calmed down a little but not much.  Onto the floor he went as soon as the doctor had shone the light in his eyes. Major meltdown in progress he began head slamming on the concrete.  

Back into my arms and onto a roller chair after a lot of signs and convincing. Then came the x-ray tech. An Autism mom herself she walked in signing.

Thank you to whoever had her scheduled.

With the help of an EMT 2 x-rays got taken. Both appeared to be clear of any major issues.

The nurse came back in with the same medication from Ben’s last visit. He did not react well at all. Sitting on a visitors chair, her got a shot to his thigh, while restrained by three people. He would do anything to stay away from the blue sheeted hospital bed.

“Give him a band-aid!” Ben took it and put it over the injection site. He calmed down a little more, looking at me with anger and betrayal in his eyes.

Then my hell truly began.

Ben’s eyes began to quiver as the sedative began to take hold. Drool dripped from between his lips. The fear in his eyes became unbearable for me.

For a split second, I was back in the big yellow farmhouse. In front of me was a ten-year-old girl with cafe-latte skin and jet black hair. The craniopharyngioma was killing her slowly and painfully. She was coming round from a non-conforming seizure. When she could talk again, she started to talk about heaven, Gramma, Carrie,  Angels and Jesus. I think it was Mom who asked what Jesus looked like, then Aimee fell into another seizure.

I snapped back to the ER and my son who was sitting in a chair was wavering back and forth, side to side. I asked him if he saw the butterflies and angels. His eyes darted around the room like lightning, pausing and focusing intently in multiple places.

“Do you see Great-Gramma?” I signed.

His eyes bored right into me and he nodded. Suddenly his eyes began to look around wildly again.  A vacant stare replaced the fear and his normally precocious curious gaze. All I could think of was the week I left him alone in the

All I could think of was the week I left him alone in the NICU.

Carrying his dead weight to the gurney I sat down as a nurse walked in from radiology. She was excitedly talking about the food in the breakroom celebrating her 40 plus years at the hospital and her last hour at work. We were wheeled to radiology.

My mind was racing. I laid kiddo down on the narrow table. I was drug back into another memory.

The 18 month-old, blond cherubim, was swollen beyond recognition.  My youngest sister lay in a PICU bed, brain-dead and on life support. Her tiny body too far gone to donate any organ, I begged any god in existence to bring her back.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as the image of my sister and the image of my son melded. I watched the CT machine stop. Ben was laying there, his toes wiggling. His eyes wide unable to move and still hallucinating, I lifted him and sat on the gurney.

Back in the room, we waited. Trauma Room 1 has no television and my book was in the parking lot. I was alone in my head.

The nurse asked me if I needed anything.

Water.

The doctor asked if I wanted a sedative.

No thank you.

I talked to the nurse about the NICU. She spoke of her first marriage.

She spoke of her first marriage.

I felt like a fool for talking about my emotions and my experiences. I discovered I need more support.

The test results came back and the doctor said, “No signs of bleeds and no broken bones.”

Relief flooded me.

Ben sat up a few minutes later, then collapsed back on top of me. This happened every five to seven minutes for forty-five minutes. Then he puked on me. The vomiting scared me more than anything else. Ben had a Nissen Fundoplication done at nine months and it is still very tight. Meaning he can’t easily throw up.

Twenty minutes later we were discharged. Between the flood of memories and watching my son constantly to assure myself he was breathing I didn’t sleep much at all that night.

I learned some very important things while I was in the ER Tuesday night. Triggers really do come in all shapes and forms. My son’s injury triggered so many memories. My panic and fear opened me up to being able to process old and buried memories. While the grief has lessened over time my PTSD still sucks.  

Now I just need to relax and breathe.

Peace.

SRWM

If you like my writing  SUPPORT US

#oblitusverba – Word of the day – tinge

They say I look at the world through rose-colored glasses,

They say I look through kaleidoscope lenses.

The people look at each other through tinted gaze,

The people all seeing different things.

Our vision obscured by our experiences,

Our vision tinged by our past.

A child looks out filterless and free,

A child looks out and sees.

We are our own filters,

We are our own choices.

 

What do you see,

What do you see?

#oblitusverba – Word of the day – pathetic

Pity the poor people who inhabit the nation as it crumbles.

Fears run rampant in every direction.

Poverty of the mind, crumples the diplomas on their walls.

The mills are closing, schools have stopped teaching.

Ignorance the chosen  weapon of mass destruction.

 

No wonder Americans feel PATHETIC.

#oblitusverba – Word of the day – Victim

free write

Self-victimization is a process where one’s mind goes from a single act of being victimized to consistently creating a sense of being a victim where there is no injury harm action or event. Self-victimization takes place in ones head and is a conditioned response to one or more perceived slights.

The ax is being held by your own hand against your own throat.

In the context of BDSM victimization is when a dominant abuses a submissive. The abuse can consist of a violation of consent in action, word or inaction. A violation of consent is a violation of trust and can destroy the bond and invalidate the contract.

Thinking that someone else is a victim is even more complicated. The assumption that what you see is exactly what presents is tempting, however, watching a person suffer needlessly is worse. In many cases a victim cannot or will not admit to the abuse out of fear. The fear can be of physical retribution or simply that they are so traumatized that they do not know that they are being abused.

Victims of long-term abuse rarely realize that they are being taken advantage of and rarely understand that the people that are “protecting” are making things worse.

Word of the Day – homage

Wake to the beep of some electronic timer.

Pretend to be happy and walk to the bathroom.

Hide on the toilet for half an hour.

Shower under hot water in a tiny glass room with soap.

Pretend that this is normal.

Dress in clothes that someone else’s hands sewed.

Shod feet in shoes made by people far away.

At least this is like life at home

Boil filtered water from a tap.

Pour over coffee from the South.

Silently thank god there is coffee here.

Read the newest news on paper tossed against the door before dawn.

 

Ignore the cameras watching  this homage to “normal” life.