Tag Archives: Esther Mitchell

Chap Books Are On The Way

I am in the final stages of putting together poetry chap books. Stay tuned for when they go on sale, and where to get them.

Each will have color covers, and contain 20-30 pages of poetry.

 

To Help Keep the Poetry Going…

Normally, I reserve this blog only for all things poetry. And I promise there is more poetry on its way.

I’m sorry for this post, but it’s become necessary to do this, not just for my personal health, but because not addressing this issue will most certainly impact my life, and my ability to continue writing.

Due to an ongoing medical condition, I was forced to leave my job back in February. Up until June, I was hanging on by the skin of my teeth with the help of family and close friends. Now, I’m facing the possibility of losing my car — my only source of reliable transportation — if I don’t come up with at least $750 before 8/15.

To press home the point of what I’m up against, I thought I’d share something a little more graphic, since I gather most people might not understand how important it is I find a way to keep my car…

Here’s a photo of my left leg, from mid-shin down, taken earlier this evening. What you see is the damage still remaining 3 years after my immune system and disease tried to destroy my ability to walk completely, by eating away at the blood vessels, tissue, nerves and bone throughout my body — most visible in my feet.

HSP Scars Left Leg - 8-9-16

The Rheumatoid Arthritis is another symptom of the widespread autoimmune disease eating away at me. All of this limits my ability to walk to practically nothing, and requires I have transportation that doesn’t mean having to walk more than a handful of feet to get to it.

This is why it is so absolutely imperative I find the support I need to keep my vehicle. Without my car, I won’t be able to leave my house, and my ability to get medical treatment, medication, and basic necessities to life will disappear. If this happens, it won’t be long until I am unable to write at all, and the rest of the eventualities are too terrifying for me to even consider, at this point.

If you’re willing to help, you can do so on the Go Fund Me page below, where my friends and family have been contributing toward the goal of paying off my car and helping remove a stress that contributes to my continued illness.

https://www.gofundme.com/esthermedical

Everyone who contributes can opt to receive special gifts, as well as complete repayment of the contributed amount, as soon as I possibly can. Just be sure to leave your name and address when you donate.

If you prefer not to donate via GoFundMe, you can e-mail me at esthermitchell(at)esthermitchell.com (replace “(at)” with @) for additional options to donate.

Thank you all, from the bottom of my heart. If I can keep my car, and lower my stress, I can complete books faster, which means more for you to read.

“One Heart At a Time”

~Esther Mitchell, 2010~

I’m sorry I hurt you,

he whispered in the night,

I’m sorry I made you feel,

worthless in my sight.

I never meant to harm you,

to put pain upon your face,

or scars upon your heart,

he murmurs as she flees for safer space.

His thoughtless words have done their evil task,

his cruelty has left a brutal mark.

She’s suffered in silence for the last time,

determined to slip away in the dark.

One day she’ll learn terrible truths,

that will chill her to the bone.

She’s not the first one he’s harmed,

She’s far, far from alone.

Note from the Author: 

 Domestic Violence doesn’t come in just bruised and battered bodies. It also comes in hateful words, screaming, and belittling. It comes in emotional, spiritual, mental and financial control, not just physical or sexual torture. It comes in inflexible control over another person’s health, welfare, or general well-being. And it often comes from those we expect to love us most. It can come from a parent (birth, adoptive, step, or by-marriage), a spouse, a lover, a sibling, or even a child. And the worst part of it is, most forms of abuse are silent to the rest of the world. Physical marks can be noticeable, in some situations. But emotional, mental and spiritual marks are invisible to the unknowing (and/or unconcerned) eye. Financial abuse is often the worst, as often the victim is ridiculed or blamed by the world at large for their own victimization (how cutting the words “how could you be that dumb?” can be when no one understands the manipulative tactics of a financial abuser. Financial abuse often leads to or involves other forms of “silent” abuse, as well – emotional, mental, or spiritual, or any combination of the above).

 It is vitally important that society as a whole takes a step back and looks at the whole picture of abuse, and not just the poster-child, if you will – physical beating. Compassion, not ridicule, is called for. “I told you so” has no place in the mouth of someone claiming to want to help. Nor does negating another’s experiences with your own. Statistics show that, even in the same household, no two victims suffer the exact same abuse. Victims often aren’t looking for advice – they know what they need to do. What they’re looking for is someone to give them the unquestioning support and sense of strength they need to carry through what has to/needs to be done. Telling someone “you need to get out” says “I think you’re stupid, too” when they’re in a mentally or emotionally abusive relationship – they KNOW they need to get out. What they need to someone to convince them they really ARE strong enough to make it out.

 It’s also important to note that Domestic Violence isn’t a “one-time” thing. Not only does it go on for years, but the perpetrators of Domestic Violence often have a long history of abuse. They might have acted out as children in a fashion that left parents or siblings wary of them. It’s possible they were even so out of control as to be institutionalized in an effort to control their violent or neglectful impulses and outbursts. They always blame others for their inability to control their emotions or anger. They’ll start explosive arguments over the most minor of comments or events, seeing a slight or accusation in any word or action that isn’t specifically aimed at praising or providing comforts for him/her. They tend to expect others to take care of them or provide for them, and they take it for granted that it’s other people’s jobs to provide their care. They’re not likely to remember your birthday or special occasions, but will incessantly remind you of their own and what they want you to provide them. In short, they tend to have a narcissistic outlook, and they will repeatedly abuse every person who is involved in a close personal relationship with them – probably the main reason why most of their personal relationships fail.

 Spiritually speaking, abusive personalities tend not to actually follow any religious tenants with a true heart, but they will quickly make use of religious dogma as a weapon against the person/people they are abusing – especially when used as a way to prove how the victim “brought this on” him or herself.

“There Are Dead Here”

~Esther Mitchell, 2001~

There are dead here,
As indelible as the stone which trapped them in,
As barricaded from memory in death,
As they were from freedom in life.

There are dead here,
Their restless souls crying out,
Caught in the moments of haunting tragedy,
Never released, never rescued, never acknowledged.

There are dead here,
Clinging to iron once meant to protect,
But which became their fiery prison, their grave-keeper,
Fused to the very safety that betrayed them.

There are dead here,
Unspoken of, unseen, unheard,
They cry out for justice from unmarked graves,
For honor, and tears, for the humanity they were stripped of.

There are dead here,
I can hear them in these walls,
And tears slide down my face,
As I make a pact here – a promise to never forget.

As long as I draw breath,
The dead here will be honored, and remembered,
Flowers, from my soul to theirs.

Note from Author(2004):

This poem was written a week after June 24, 2001, when research into an unrelated event turned up an utterly shocking and sickening event that took place in New Orleans in 1973. The images in the book on LGBT history regarding the Upstairs Lounge massacre shook me to the core, and after days and nights of being unable to put the images from my mind, I was compelled to write this piece, to offer some solace to the victims of this terrible massacre that went unsolved due to the prevalence of homophobia and bigotry that’s long barred the resolution of this case. It is my fervent hope that sharing this poem on the anniversary of this terrible act of hate and miscarriage of justice will one day bring justice, closure, and peace to these restless souls.

Note from Author (2013):

The above poem and note were first originally shared via e-mail with several groups to which I belonged at the time. Today, on the 40th anniversary of this tragedy, with still no resolution, it seemed fitting to share it again, and this time with a much wider audience, as I have access to such an audience, now. This is a wrong that still needs righting, and it’s time people start speaking out.

“Mother’s Love” (A Mother’s Day Tribute)

There are mothers in every life,
Those who give us breath,
And those who hold us tight.

Yes, there are mothers for all of us,
some stay for a lifetime,
others pass through with little fuss.

Some give us life,
Some give us hope,
Some help us laugh,
Some help us cope.

But there are mothers for everyone,
whether with two legs or four,
be they mother to a daughter or a son,
for Nature smiles truly bright,
in the presence of a mother’s love.

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY TO ALL THE MOTHERS OUT THERE – AND ESPECIALLY TO THOSE WHO HAVE TOUCHED MY LIFE IN THEIR OWN SPECIAL WAYS! 🙂

“Fairy Tales”

~Esther Mitchell, 2015~

I learned very young,
To hide pain behind a smile,
And that disappointment didn’t exist,
Unless it was someone else’s, in me.
While other children knew carefree,
I learned to act like I belonged,
I perfected the comedy of “play,”
To cover over a tragedy in which I was the corpse.
My flesh houses an empty hollow,
That echoes even today with my silent screams.
By the time my peers learned to read,
I was pouring out what was left of my soul on tear-stained pages.
I had already learned sticks and stones merely left bruises,
But words had the power to kill,
It only took one to take away the rest of my life,
Washed it away in a sea of chlorine meant to white-wash the truth,
Into something more palatable for adults to swallow.
See, they don’t want to hear that you’re damaged,
Or that you’re pulled apart from the inside,
A twisted, rotting corpse of yourself.
A child is supposed to be happy,
And if you’re not, they don’t want to know.
They’ll stick their heads so far into the sand they come up in an ocean,
Where they can’t possibly see the evidence of your tears.
I was a prisoner in solitary confinement,
Attempting my own execution, just to escape the monsters in my head,
Hoping to outrun demons that mocked me with my own worthlessness.
When I was still a child, I learned not to wish,
There was no genie in my bottle,
Just a handful of white oblivion, ready to swallow me up if I let it.
It became easy to think of letting it.
It became easy to let it.
And then an angel taught me how to fly.
Taught me clouds were meant to be walked on.
Taught me corpses could be brought back to life, could be beautiful again.
Taught me what it was like to fall.
Taught me what it’s like when the ground swallows you whole,
Takes away angels and sweeps away clouds,
Until there’s nothing left but that hollow, empty grave.
And the blood runs red,
Streams that become rivers,
Until it carries away the pain,
And I wish again – to remove the heart that won’t stop beating.
Because I learned as a child,
Fairy tales are only there to trick you into ignoring the darkness.

Image by graur codrin

Image by graur codrin

“Child of the World”

~Esther Mitchell, 2001~

I was born a child of the world,
Knowing no borders,
No boundaries,
No race, religion, or creed.

I was born a child of the world,
Daughter of the Earth,
Of the Sky, of the Sea, of the Flame,
Sister to all creatures.

I was born a child of the world,
I know none of the boundaries,
You place on hearts, minds and souls.

I was born a child of the world,
I don’t know your hate,
I know only encompassing love.
I mourn for the bloodshed,
I mourn for the pain,
I weep on this ground,
That bears your hate’s stain.

I was born a child of the world,
And I’ve travelled it over, in body and dream,
I know the faces of all its peoples,
I embrace them all just the same.

There is no one beneath me,
No one placed above,
I am a child of the world,
And my message is only love.

globe