A poem – an expedition into the subconscious

unrecognized openings
in the craggy rock of consciousness
jar and repulse
this is not me she said
as she entered in

as the cavern opened
slipping she found
footholds leading down
she stepped
unfailingly inept
while eyes did unfold

 
it is bigger than we know
and down we can go
into darkness and into cold
to find the story yet untold 
and the flowers will unfold

the flowers will
unfold

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A short story – Underneath

Underwater fantasies plague me. They find a way into my dreams, and the poetry of my daily life. I often wish I could run from them, but I end up reveling in their beauty, even the ones that include my drowning. They mirror my life. I am subsciously submerged. It is the aqueous world of slow movement, being unable to breath. Surrounded by that that is alien, I am an animal in water. I try to run, but I’m unable to. I try to breath and my lungs refuse. I wake up, but only partially.  My other half is still there, still submerged, always under. But what can I do but continue to walk, breathe, live. So I go about my daily tasks; with effort, my limbs strain against unknown tension, density. Maybe that’s it, that this world feels so dense. Ever since I lost the one I loved the world has morphed by scientific property in some unknown way.

I find myself sitting out in the desert sun on a hot day; my skin sweltering and sweating in its rays, my mind dwelling in that of a cool underwater palace. I am caught by thoughts of falling under, of circling and twisting through, almost running out of  breath, a hand coming in at the last minute to pull me to safety. It feels both silky and labored. It is the road I am walking on now.

The man at the local grocery store always greets me. He knows my name and I know his from the tag he wears at his breast. I was buying items for a new stir fry recipe. It called for watercress. As he typed in its number, he looked at me and said, “You know the ocean contains our greatest mysteries?” I nodded and he continued, “The thing about mysteries is they are both exciting, beautiful, and terrifying. They can be anything.” I could tell he was thinking of a memory. He was also dwelling somewhere deep within himself. He finished ringing up my items and wished me a good day.  I carried on my way, dragging my feet through the watery shallows of my mind.

I was feeling mysterious. As the grief had left my body, slowly and with effort, a cavern had filled with a substance of emotion I did not yet know. When I pictured it in my mind’s eye it was swirling dark, velvet black and blue; silver flecks sparkled, like stars throwing out light indiscriminately, almost madly. It was an impending constellation, rising from below.