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2002
I can’t return.
Mired in the swamp
of depression,
My body is wracked
by incessant pain:
Nerves afire
in unquenchable agony.
No sleep, no dreams,
no relief available.
One by one
the body’s systems
reach overload.
No spring of silence
to grant welcome relief.
I have no strength
to reach that spring;
the chronic pain
saps me of strength,
of life.
Alone, yet not:
others share
the swamp with me.
All alike, yet each alone,
we writhe together
in solo agony.
No one sees the swamp we share:
just the ones entrapped within.
“malingerers”, they label us;
“it’s in your head”, “stop making a fuss”.
Without the sight to really see
how can they help us
to break free?
Oh, let the sun
dispel the gloom
and free us
from our fiery doom.
Joan Currier copyright 2002
The Spring of Silence 1968
I sought it
in the noisy tumult of the city,
but could not find it.
Leaving the city,
I found it at last, and
timidly waded in, feeling its soft,
cool swirling
about me;
I felt its soothing caresses, saw its
peaceful beach
where I could rest, and
heard
its low, sweet gurgling and the
tinkling music
as it swished around me.
Summoning my courage, I plunged
into its cool, blue depths:
Deeper and deeper I dived,
My body tingling with its
clear, cold exhilaration.
He came to me as I swam.
He whispered marvelous things:
words of solace, of peace,
of love, promises!
My heart was brimming over
with His love, and
we spent an eternity of moments
in a
dialogue of shared secrets.
Joan Currier
Night-- for a Fibromite
The sky darkens: night is here--again.
I pray that this one
is better than the one before.
Meds taken, I start the routine
to prepare myself
for desperately needed sleep:
Soft music, low light, gentle yogic postures
and meditation:
A mental journey to a peaceful wood
to leave my burdens for a bit.
I pray by that soothing brook
for release from pain--
if only for a little while.
Climbing wearily into my wool-warm bed,
I pull the comforter loosely around me.
My old cat has already gone to sleep,
but she sleepily rumbles hi, and goodnight.
As I pile my pillows to make a nest
of warmth and softness to cushion my pain-wracked body.
Restlessly moving, starting at every creak
as this old house settles itself for sleep,
I drop into a drug-induced doze
only to waken with pain’s insistent summons
a few hours later.
Tossing and turning, I reposition myself
for the umpteenth time, and doze off again,
only to be awakened by the need
for a quick trip across the hall--
but there’s only a bare trickle
when there should have been a flood.
Once again I climb into my rumpled nest
Once again I slip into fitful slumber
to dream: wild, scary, horrible things
that wake me once again.
The fan above, black in the night
against a ceiling of moonlit white
appears to be a giant hand
reaching down to enfold me.
The ticking of the bedside clock, to others barely heard,
to me is loud, TICK-TOCK-TICK-TOCK
and what is really weird,
is that IT’S IN THE LIVING ROOM~
under the cushion, in a sock!
Now the furnace fires up,
tornadic winds begin.
(at least to me it seems that way)
I shrug in my chagrin,
turn over, reposition limbs,
and fall asleep again.
The sky lightens: day is here--again.
Four dreams with no endings,
My bed in a heap,
Maybe tonight I’ll get better sleep?
Joan Currier copyright 2002 |
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Upright
(for MiriJ)
You ask me how I am today,
(but don’t really want to know).
I smile and say: “I’m Upright”,
and then I let you go.
If I really told the truth to you
you’d never ask again;
I’d probably never see a trace
of hide nor hair--but then,
When one is living as I do
and pain is in degrees
of “major”, “massive”, “overwhelmed”
why fuss with niceties?
Joan Currier copyright 3/2002
4/1/71
But, alas, I could not stay
in those sacred depths:
the Powers that Were said I was weak
and the spring was too deep for my weakness.
I had to ascend to the shimmering surface,
leave my joy for a city’s tumult.
But I will return. I must return.
Joan Currier
CyberKitty for “CallieV8” , age 3 mos.
1/10/02
“Mrrrrr?” you ask, as you pat the screen.
“Where are all my friends today?”
“Mrrrrr!”you purr as the desktop gleams
“Won’t you please come out and play?”
I’m trying to work, you silly kit,
How can I even see the page?
When you insist, and then you sit
On the keyboard, in the way?
“Mrrrew!” you exclaim when the printer starts,
then you try to catch the sheet
as it slips out of your tiny grasp
and makes you land in a furry heap.
Oh, little one, you are so cute,
but you send my thoughts so far astray
as you try to catch the cursor, dear,
all you want to do is play, play, play!
How can I get my letters done
when I can’t even see the screen?
Your precious body’s in the way
sometimes you make me want to scream!
“Mrrrew!” you say as you knock the pen
onto the floor again, again,
“Mrrrew!” you cry as the papers fly.
You really need your own playpen!
And then you sit upon my wrist,
(Your purr is more a thrumming roar)
And take your nap to get the strength
to play with Mac some more, some morrrrrr!
Joan Currier copyright 2002
***Winter Silence***
The snow slips in silently
as a kitten on a quest
covering all it falls upon
with a soft, clean blanket
of shining white.
The evergreens: pines, spruce, cedar and fir,
are draped in gossamer shawls,
and the bare branches of aspen, ash and oak
are frosted and highlighted
like a bevy of blonde beauties.
A hush descends upon the forest,
and the stream gurgles quietly under its frozen lid
as a graceful doe glides silently through the meadow
and her yearling fawns romp like schoolchildren
at recess.
Sunlight filters through the snowfall,
casting soft shadows among the trees,
as nimble squirrels, too hungry to sleep,
scamper precariously to reach
the last hanging seeds of the horse chestnut.
The mountains watch imperiously
as I slide along on silent skis,
as if affronted and indignant
that I dare enter their presence.
Please, kind sirs and madams,
let me stay but a little while
to absorb the peace of your domain
before returning to the noisy town
below.
Joan Currier copyright 2002
Pain Is A Four-Letter Word
Pain, with each heartbeat, throbs through my body
Like the booming bass from the passing cars;
The trains that roar through at the end of my street
Echo the constant rumble of muscles, in knots,
That roar through my attempts to sleep.
Sound is too loud, Light is too bright,
Smells that others may not even detect make me deathly ill,
But no one sees, no one understands. Does anyone care?
“You look fine to me, are you better now? Have you tried to get a job?”
But no one listens when I try to explain
That “better” will never be.
With a brain that can’t think, hands that won’t
work,
A back that keeps failing with each tiny jerk.
Pain in my head, in my jaw, in my neck,
Pain in my chest, arms, back, legs, and, heck!
Even my feet won’t work the way
that they used to do just yesterday.
Pain all the night, and pain all the day,
Pain that will never, ever go away.
Pills and potions, massage lotions,
Diet, and Yoga, and Prayers galore.
And now they say I have Diabetes.
Stop! Please! I can’t handle anymore!
I live with my mother, she understands some
of what I’m trying to survive.
But only my friends with FM and MS
Know how hard it is to be alive.
I understand their pain, They understand mine:
We see it in each other’s eyes,
But we can’t hug each other--it hurts too much.
Spasms and trigger points keep up apart,
But we cry together, laugh together,
do our best to just stay together,
Sisters in Pain with the same heart.
Joan Currier copyright 2002
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