Monthly Archives: February 2014

“Tortured Art”

~Esther Mitchell, 2012~

I’ve lost my inspiration,

It’s crept away to hide;

My Muse has sought seclusion,

Since discovering how others lied.

They told me I could make it,

Success, they said, was on my side;

All I had to do was want it,

It would be mine, if I only tried.

But no one ever mentioned heartache,

Or said a word about the pain;

There was no mention of endless hoops and circles,

Looping on themselves again and again.

With each crumbled hope,

And every crushed dream,

I feel the tightening of the rope,

And hovering failure drags forth a tortured scream.

For, with my Muse shrouded in silence,

And my present painted so bleak,

My confidence turns to dust and self-violence,

My art unable to find voice enough to speak.


“Mortal Eyes”

~Esther Mitchell, 1988 ~

Mortal lips have never told,

what mortal eyes do behold,

but mortal hands and mortal works,

is where Eternity’s power lurks.

Immortality can never know,

what wealth passing on may sow,

Never imagined are such things,

by those who, of Eternity, sing.

The briefest glimpse, as fragile life knows,

allows imagination to open the rose,

The sweetest lines are always made,

by those only briefly in Life’s shade.

No care do immortals have of creating,

for they will never feel breath bating,

and they have no desire to make,

for they do not have to cling to life or break.

No, they do not see even a glimmer,

of what, to mortals, shimmers,

for theirs is not an ending dance,

and they have no regret of lost chances.


~Esther Mitchell, 1990 ~

Without earthly thought,

I, nightly, spend this tryst,

wrapped in dreams dearly bought,

that vanish, as dawn’s ethereal mist.

Within pages unwritten,

beyond lives never lived in,

rests forbidden fruit, never bitten,

a knowledge offered but never given.

Nightly here I’ve reverently slipped,

to dance a dream’s darkness,

safe within Morpheus’ grip,

a dark jewel in palor’s starkness.

Here, beside the God of Dreams,

I am safe from harm,

a fugitive child, held so tightly,

in love’s warmth and forgotten childhood’s charm,

escaping daylight’s woes, nightly.

Here I’ve found my only home,

a dream well bought and spent,

to dance before a silver throne,

where Innocence’s veil remains unrent.

But as dawn slays the night,

so must I leave this place,

and though nightmares send all dreams to flight,

I’ll see forever Morpheus’ beloved face.


~Esther Mitchell, 2011~

Do I frighten you,

Because I’m strong?

A woman who won’t,

Be silent when wronged.

Do I scare you,

Because I can be angered,

Without once knowing hate,

That I won’t put another’s welfare in undeserved danger?

Are you afraid that I know more,

Than you can comprehend,

That I can love others,

More than I care for myself,

And that I consider all my sisters and my brothers?

Does it frighten you,

To know I can forgive you,

But that I’m not idiot enough,

To ever again trust you?


~Esther Mitchell, 2012~

It’s so easy to be transparent,

To become completely see-through,

And fade into the background.

It’s so effortless,

This glide into obscurity,

This free-fall into anonymity.

It’s never hard to cease to matter,

To fade from memory and thought,

And become that spectre passing on the breeze.

Words without a voice,

Thoughts no one ever heard,

Unacknowledged, unrevealed,

A shade in the midnight spaces of the world.

This is my lot in life,

To be seen only when benefits another,

A fact not to be pitied or denied,

A simple truth I’ve at last accepted,

As my last lonely tears I’ve cried.

“Freeing the Clown”

~Esther Mitchell, 1996 ~

How can I say the words,

Trapped behind this laughter,

When my voice freezes in fear,

Afraid it’s my heart you’ll slaughter?

The lacking is within me,

It beats here in my chest,

A wounded heart, estranged to love,

A trust abused, a dreaded test.

How sad the first steps,

Should have to be yours, upon this ice,

For the past holds me from movement,

My fear and pain swirled like a painter’s palette.

Please help me take that step,

Erase my fears and set me free,

Show me it’s again safe to trust,

And just love me for me.

For I’ll egg your laughter on,

At my own expense,

But when the day is done,

the paint streaks away beneath the weight of pain.

I fear you see only the clown,

This paint upon my face,

And that you’ll hate the me inside,

And take away my only safe space.

So promise me solemn,

And promise me true,

That, at my worst and at my best,

I can always count on you.

“Empty Shell”

~ Esther Mitchell, 1989 ~

A solemn court,

a masterless place,

a deserted fort,

is this barren face;

Fate’s cold hand,

once so gentle and warm,

now steals Life’s sand,

and cools passion’s charm;

This once-fertile heart made barren,

by the basest of unholy wants,

with hope suffocated, fear instead of daring,

an empty shell, unaware of the love life flaunts;

By violence bound and gagged,

a despairing captive of the living,

a soul tattered, a banner now ragged,

a body taken, with never a thought of giving;

This terrified desire,

for something other than power’s lust,

something more elusive than dark memory’s fire,

where the heart’s need for precious love becomes a must.