As stated in its website, Survivor Chronicles is a small independent publication that seeks to represent writing (poetry, short fiction, non fiction) and art that has been part of the process of trauma survival.

It is open to everyone who has survived trauma or watched someone close survive trauma, and has created art as a part of the process. We seek to represent marginalized voices, in their purest, rawest, most sublime forms.

This is a survivor's record of the every day struggle and triumph of survival; an artist's view of art as art, art as therapy, art as a chronicle.

Here are four of my poems recently published on Survivor Chronicles.

 

My Jazzman

May 23, 2010 by survivorchronicles

 

My jazzman


beat it out


on the mighty eighty-eights


played those riffs


tapped his feet


bent his head


down to the keys


felt those sounds


on his fingertips.


Yeah, he was a hot man


on those eighty-eights.

But, all too soon


his bag grew dark.


He went down


deep down.


My jazzman


played the blues


lost that spark


closed the lid.


And, yeah, you got it right,


quit the scene.


laid himself down


in that bone yard


for the big sleep.


Yeah, for the really big sleep.

 

Buddha

May 22, 2010 by survivorchronicles

 

"The dead we can imagine to be anything at all."


Ann Patchett, Bel Canto

 

He sits cross-legged in a tree


deep in concentration,


the way he would sit on the floor of his room


leaning against the bed doing homework,


composing music, talking on the phone.


His closed-mouth grin shows


he is pleased to be where he is.


No longer a skinny rail, his cheeks filled out,


his skin clear, his eyes bright.


His tree has everything - soft jazz sounds


flowing from all directions,


deep vees and pillows for sitting and reclining,


the scent of incense and flowers,


branches of books by Miller, Tolstoy, and Dostoevsky


the music of Davis, Gould, Bach and Lennon,


and virtual communication to those he loves.


He needs no furniture, no bedding, no clothes, no food.


Those necessities are for worldly beings.


The passing clouds give him comfort


and the stars light his way.


Heaven takes care of him


as he imagines himself


to be anything at all.

 

The Dreaded Question

May 22, 2010 by survivorchronicles

 

It happened again like so many times before.


I was at my sister's house,


standing at the kitchen counter


with her neighbor,


someone I had just met.


We talked about what a great day


this had been in Portland


and asked, isn't my sister's garden just beautiful


and what do you do for a living


and where are you originally from?


Then, there it was,


the dreaded question,

just after I had tossed the salad greens


added the tomatoes to the bowl


and sliced in the avocado,

"How many children do you have?" she asked.


And never missing a beat


I said, I had two


but now, only one.


My oldest son died.

 

Then I left the room to get myself together


and wonder what she and my sister were saying


while I was gone.

 

Mania

May 22, 2010 by survivorchronicles

 

Intoxicated, euphoric,


exhilarated, with visions


of power without bounds,


Paul is like Superman.


He climbs, he circles, he races,


he floats above reality

until paranoia removes all


semblance of his sanity.


Then he sees demons lurking in alleyways,


imaginary Mafioso poisoning his drinks and cigarettes


as well as the world's water supply.


He is left to wander, pace,


click door latches as he goes in and out


of the house and up and down the stairs.


While he babbles unintelligibly, imperceptibly,


he keeps time to his internal orchestrations.

 

The voices he hears echo like violins


ever louder, faster, discordant


until a cacophony of drumbeats


and a tintinnabulation of scraping symbols


pound his brain.


He looks for an exit


where none exists.


There is no escape, no way out


except death


and eternal silence.