How I Climb Out of Darkness

 

About this Poem:

Depression and anxiety touch so many of us. My family and I have fought this enemy on many fronts. Over time, we eventually discover things that help us deal with this demon. And one person’s solution may not work for everyone. We each need to own or rely upon our unique answer—and this is one of mine.

 

I wake from another drowning embrace
clutched in the ocean’s dark abysmal rage
then wander far—on weary anxious feet
and dream—in hollows of a restless brain

 

I chase longings to find my secret place
along jagged lines of imaginary maps
switchbacks driving me up—in teary hope
climbing trails to clouds of saving power
searching for a thing within a thing
trying to bury troubles—in tombs of yesterday
or in churning whirlpools of word chaos

 

thankfully—a merciful vision gathers
within this sore dull smudge of my mind
of sacred spaces—I once visited and breathed

 

I find myself—hidden beneath a forested canopy
or perched upon a mossy highline rock
or burrowed in a soft nest of alpine meadow
trickles of twisting clear water engulf me
gurgling from deep arteries of icy springs

 

I awaken to observe every minute thing
like smooth wet stones in opalescent sheen—
painted in eons of a speckled enigma
I am a small rock in this work of everything

 

my tender tentacles of touch spread out
to corrugations in barks of lonely ponderosa
its roots wedging between slabs of rocky time
muscles heaving a tired arch of mountain
pika building shelters beneath cold talus
eagles spinning invisible webs of indigo sky
a pale moon shredding on daggers of granite
settling mists of sweet condensing dews
wildflowers bragging about their rocky triumph

 

air rushes through brushes of pine needles
a heavy sky moans against a rasp of ridgeline
sunlight penetrates lonely primeval caverns
mirror faced lakes reflect a hidden source—
in shattered remains of a once-stately crag

 

bogs of floating grass caress brews of auburn tea
mountain goats taunt vertical sheer voids
rainbow trout absorb rich—colorful legacies
and time uses its slow molasses to mend stuff

 

it all seems so intricate—so perfectly aligned
within hugs of each timid or primitive sphere
scenes of fidelity bathed in sanctifying beauty
songs of nature melting into an artist’s eye

 

yet beneath this magnificence lies me—
a hollowed-out pinecone of a defective soul
combing for answers to my seedless heart
coping in visions that eventually evaporate
like whispers in seclusions of a still oblivion

 

through these random journeys of mental hunger
I learn to wash—rinse—repeat—and start over
I slowly unearth deity in lost divine moments
I unravel compositions of a far greater purpose
I touch compassion in all its colorful molecules

 

and in each breath of spirit which fuels my spirit
I replay the good music and find notes that heal
then—I write fiercely and ferociously about it—
relentless in working poetry of unraveling words
I finally realize—my pen can be my mind

 

this is how I evolve—to calm my raspy voice
into soft sculptures of a mountain solitaire
this is how I unleash—from shackles of pain
into alpine meadows of redeeming tranquility
this is how I dilute my salty tears of anxiety
into summer’s purest warm rains of heaven
this is how I grind my battles with depression
into dark—fertile soils of a verdant future
and this is how I activate my forcefields
against powerful shadows that ensnare my mind

 

and now—after many long—scribbled out years
stumbling over words with my heavenly creator
I have finally learned to humbly deal with it—
even through all its unexpected ebbs and flows

 

I can better escape my skeletons of darkness
I can better insulate a cold that drinks all warmth
I can better exorcise evils that suck my breath
I can better climb sharp mountains of my life
and I can now plug a leaking sieve in my heart

 

after this long cyclical path—I have learned
the sad songs through life, nature, and myself
can really shape me—help me recognize—
that while haunted in deep forests of yearning
for a benign and a sacred space of inspiration
I seem to suffer the most when I care the most
empathy can be sad—but it can also bring joy
as I turn that care into voluntary works of love

 

most of all—I depend on a kind loving friend
a patient partner who climbs beside me
who lifts me out of my emotional swamps
into the clearer atmospheres of blinding light
leading me to deep wells of pure living water
she helps me accept a more authentic me—
she brings me back to a spiritual purpose
and together—we ponder unwritten futures
to be penned in our words of hope and love
by her touch of healing grace—she is my poetry