Monthly Archives: October 2014

“Theatre of Being”

~Esther Mitchell, 2014~

It’s all a long procession,
Of masks, and lines, and parts,
Emoting in stasis, like a grinning puppet,
Of a circus that long ago frightened off childhood,
And replaced it with this writhing, frenzied beast,
Determined to rip me apart, starting on the inside.

My value was bought and sold,
Not in bags of silver,
But in pennies,
Tossed in a street full of runaway horses,
While others stood on the sidelines and laughed,
As I scrambled to hold my sinking life together,
My torment turned into a spectator sport,
In which your commentary matters more to you,
Than my living the experience ever will.

I am a marionette in the hands of the masses,
The tattered old Punch who’s taken too many beatings,
And still the audience demands to be entertained,
Amused by my plight,
Made to feel important by my misery,
As if my life was just a part I play,
To be shelved when the lights dim,
Washed away like a grease painted mask,
And forgotten until I’m next called on to entertain.

But this theatre you see,
Goes to the very core of my being,
It is my life, everything that I am,
Laid open, bare, and bleeding,
I’m not asking for much in exchange,
But to not be treated like a source of your entertainment.

Image by graur codrin

Image by graur codrin

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“Have You Seen Me?”

~Esther Mitchell, 1989~

I’m not the friend regularly seen,
It’s possible you’ve looked straight through me;

I rarely get invited to parties or balls,
Most times, I don’t hear from anyone at all;

I show up early, I’ll even stay late,
Just because I don’t want anyone to wait;

I’m often shunned, ridiculed, or ignored,
I can’t recall ever being adored;

A pariah, an outcast, Changeling, and “weird,”
These are all names which, in my brain, are seared;

But, though the barbs of silence sting,
I know I can rely on better things;

A world that exists beyond what most people know,
A place where I’m loved, and where I am safe to grow.

Photo courtesy Victor Habbick

Photo courtesy Victor Habbick

“Fae Kisses”

~Esther Mitchell, 1985~

A sprinkle of crystalline drops,
A gossamer robe hung to dry,
The whispered song of mother to young,
An echo of sweet lullaby;

The rustle of unseen footsteps,
Upon lush, color-strewn rugs,
And the tickle of bubbling laughter,
That wraps ‘round you like a hug;

Each wooded glade knows,
The sweet song of Morning’s mist,
As each pathway glows,
Touched by a Faery’s sweet kiss.

POET’S NOTE:
I wrote this poem what seems like a lifetime ago, now, as I sat in a tiny grove of trees, listening to the spirits of Nature all around me. In that morning light, I found feelings that forever linger, and made a friendship that’s followed me all the years since. I decided to share the thoughts I could only find words to put to paper in a poem, all those years ago.

Angel Child