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Saturday, February 19, 2011

The Writing on the Wall

I have not posted recently and that is partly due to a great deal of art I have been doing with the children of Northwest DC. I love to work with children and to see the pure art they produce. It is such and honor. I am also working on a book and that has taken up a lot of my time to write. That book is 73 cents. It compares my childhood of abuse to the Fred's experience of being a patient while I experienced being his caregiver.

As I was flying to Memphis to present a speech before Methodist Healthcare, I wrote a poem that I thought I should share with you.

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The Writing on the Wall


When I was only six years old, I drew upon the wall.
So sad, so small and all alone, I smote my cares on stone.
The other children swarmed and skipped
Like ants, they’d come and go.
I stood silent, chalk in hand and wrote upon the wall.
The teachers would pass me by and talk amongst themselves.
The children laughed and ran and played
And left me to myself. So, I would draw, and sculpt and scratch
The art would sooth my soul.
I left the best of me as powder on a wall.

At seven years, I learned that walls are hollow things.
That fathers beat and children greet whips, with tears and screams
That gentle hearts can’t help but bow before the rage.
Those walls give way to fists and boots, while drywall cracks with age.
I wrote my sorrow on page and dropped it in the wall,
Hoping it would speak for me,
If I could speak no more.
Seven years old, I might be and slow and sad and small,
But even I could read the writing on the wall.

At seven years and thirty, I’d find the wall again.
I’d remember in my sorrow that bricks could be your friends.
That cinderblocks and stones can calm
That paint can make amends,
So, I painted all my grief out and smeared it on a wall,
And the children watched in wonder,
And a world would hear my song.
Sometimes within our sorrow, sometimes in grief and rage,
We can write our testament with gigabytes and paint.

When was only six years old, I drew upon the wall,
So sad, so small and all alone, I smote my cares on stone.
But I no longer paint alone.
For others hear the call.
Thank God each night my friends log on
And read the writing on my wall.


Bricks can be your friend... Methodist Healthcare

For more background related to this post, see "Rescue Me".

1 comment:

  1. Good Lord, Regina - I'm just gasping at this. SUCH powerful imagery! You're really turning into a force, such a potent voice. Thank you so much.

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