ALMOST HOME

My grandmother raised raspberries
white ones and black ones and red ones.
One Sunday, after my dad
and uncles had returned
from The South Pacific,
she and I picked
a basket of red ones
because my uncle Russell
liked them best.

Grandma climbed the steps
to a screened in back porch
with the rounded basket of berries.
I, a gentleman of five,
opened the door quietly
because Russell was there
on the day bed
sleeping.
But the screen door slipped,
the strong spring slammed
it shut like a rifle shot.
In one incredible motion,
The sleeping Russell rose
and caught his mother
by the throat.
Raspberries went everywhere.

Grandma was not badly hurt
except for ugly bruises
where thumb and finger pressed
and a sore stomach
where the sleeping Russell,
knifeless,
tried to disembowel her.
Later, Grandma joked,
“Beware of slamming doors
when Russell sleeps.”

I know the story well
because Grandma explained
about Russell
so I would lose my fear
of him.
But I have only one
clear image of my own.
I remember watching,
in dismay,
from among the raspberry bushes
and wondering what to do
about my uncle Russell
hunched on the back steps
crying
and crying

Vess Quinlan

MY SONG OF BEING, OF MYSELF

I am a walker of miles and of hours
But it is never with my feet that I walk,
With my knees devoid of cartilage,
Failing to carry this mortal body very far for very long.
So it is with my soul that I travel, carrying with me my soulcase,
with travel stickers from all the Beings my soul has placed.

I am a child of television. At two I sat at the dinner table,
Looking into the living room where my baby sister lay,
She rocking in a nip-nap by a babysitter's hand,
I watching The Wonderful World of Disney
On our black and white TV in its blonde wood cabinet,
My parents in suit and dress, saying goodbye
As they left for one of many nights out with friends.

I am a child with no fear or sense of separation.
I recall no emotion at their leaving,
Or toward my older brother and younger sister,
Just intent interest in what Old Walt had concocted.
Where was my soul, intertwined with those who came
And those who left, as well as with Old Walt himself.

I am a suburban soul. At three and a half having moved
into the family home, a new subdivision of identical ranch homes,
populated by Catholics, the only kind of people I knew existed.
Children ran through the neighborhood, riding bikes, swimming,
playing games like wiffle ball, hopscotch and hide and seek.
Mothers at home visiting in backyards drinking gin and tonics.

I am a Catholic child. Attending only Catholic grade school.
At seven, kneeling in church next to my father
I felt the piety of a saint, as God lived deep within me.
Jesus entered my Being at each Communion
And purity and rapture filled me to overflow,
Until I was not present within my own body.

I am the Lord's handmaiden. I was certain I would become a nun,
Offering myself in service to the Lord throughout my youth.
Confessing my sins of disobedience, mortifying the flesh,
Offering up penance to be able to be worthy of the Love of God.
Prayer coming from my whole heart, lost in the touching
Of the creator and all creation.

I am the seer of souls. No longer seeing individuals,
But seeing the true being made in the image and likeness of God.
Traveling through the sphere of the heavens
Until there was no time and no physical space, astral projection.
I am the innocent being, untainted by the taunts of peers,
Which would come at a later time in life.

I am the laggard, falling far behind the human maturation of my friends
Who were able to arrive at a knowledge of carnal, human lust,
While instead, perplexed by what I did not see, I was left in the dust.
Struggling to catch up, I am the false being, wanting only to belong,
Looking for external love and approval, avoiding the finger of mocking
I am the martyr encircled by my own disapproval and crucifixion.

I am the paranoid doubter, believing that other teens had a form of telepathy
That they shared in keeping on the same wavelength
From which I was excluded, still feeling ridiculed.
I am the glove of drugs and alcohol, made to fit
Upon the hand of teenage angst, my own hand.
I am the one who turned away from God to face my peers.

I am the square peg in the round hole, still never fitting in,
Never being the cheerleader or able to feign averageness,
I am the conscience of youth
sitting in front of the White House protesting the war.
I am the hitchhiker for experience sake,
To know poverty, drugs, violence and the absence of middle class mores.

I am the one who takes risk merely to avoid dullness,
Until it turns into a knife held against the throat
And rape of not only my body, but also my beliefs.
I am the traveler to God, to hypocrisy.
The traveler to fear and to confusion.
I am the arrival at the door of meaningless, godless existence.

I have journeyed the paths of self-hatred and self-abuse.
I have arrived at the expectation of abuse by others.
I have taken risks hoping to arrive at death,
Only to arrive at an alcoholic, abusive relationship
That was interspersed with apology, regret and love,
Redeeming the rape from the totality of evil.

I have traveled the roads of trust and respect,
Coming to the door of friendships that last to this very day.
Understanding has become my companion as I witness
the pain of others that creates the abused and the abusers.
Loving kindness has followed me along the path
As I reach beyond my separate self to the Oneness.

The Lord raised me up with the love of motherhood,
Showing me the blessing of giving and the peace in patience.
Unconditional love traveled both to and from me, and
Each morning I saw the beauty of the new day.
Each night I thanked god for all I was given and spared.
Each day the lines of communication flowed from me to my creator.

Glory, glory, all praise to all Being. For I am the seer
Of the exchange of matter between myself and all that is.
I urged my children to look, to see, the particles
Sloughing off of trees, into the air, then inhaled by my own lungs.
To smell the sweet pungent odor of decay in autumn when death
Adds its essence to life in new and different forms.

Wonder, wonder, at creation itself. Knowing that the light I see
No longer exist as the stars now before my eyes.
But knowing that the light which traveled at its own speed,
Would never age and was eternal. It was the light, the truth and the way.
I am the seer of the light, the knower of the truth, the follower of the way.
Yet I am also the stumbling fool who in tracking follows her own footsteps.

Praise, praise, the Oneness of being, knowing that I have traveled
To the outskirts of both the universe and time.
The outskirts of the beginning before time, when all was one.
Living in the outskirts of the now, where separation threatens annihilation.
I have traveled to the outskirts of space where oneness holds itself in infinity.
I am the traveler who sees, knows and feels; and it is you that I see and know and feel.

The pit of darkness has dragged me into its depths,
Where even within the expansiveness of heart and soul
I can not see my self, my soul, empty within, unconscious without.
I have walked like a zombie through what was once a life,
Feeling again perplexed, again having my beliefs
pulled out like a rug from beneath my feet.

Scurrying like a rat in a social maze, I am.
Dancing the tarantella of insanity, I am.
Plunging deeply into an abyss I never knew existed, I am.
I travel incessantly along the road to the place of me,
Knowing full well that it is the place of the WE
And that no dance or plunge can change my Being.

Where do I travel now?
Through the morass of the mind,
The underworld of darkness I denied was me.
I am fearful of the dark yet too paralyzed to reach the light.
I wander in a heart with a labyrinth of tunnels
That exist because of the holes punctured by attachments.

Where does this journey lead?
Back to the seven year old kneeling before the altar of truth.
Back to the knowledge of the God within.
Though the journey is more difficult after having lost my way,
After travelling so many wayward paths that the signposts are faded or blank
I am the dark night of the soul finding its way into the interior castle.

I celebrate that which I am, part and parcel of the Great I am who AM.

Kathleen McDonald

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