Monthly Archives: August 2014

My favorite, ever…or what happens when Lauren thinks about things late at night.

So, I wrote poetry. Yeah, I used to write a poem a week, sometimes a poem a night. I used to write crappy stuff, and I had an occasional poem come out a success. This is one of those successes. And yes, it’s all me, written by me, you can’t have it, I copyright it, so nyahh to you.

It’s called Peaceful Turmoil. While it was written, my life really was in turmoil. To the outside observer, maybe not so much was going on, but I was still trying to find myself. I frequently point to this poem when I tell people I write poetry. I would argue it’s probably one of my best, and I’m not sure if that’s something to brag about or not.

What I can tell you, though, is that it wasn’t written in anger, depression, or anxiety, despite how it feels. One night, the first two lines came to me, and the rest poured out. It was one of the stronger free writing moments I’ve ever had, and I’m still not sure what my mindset was during it. I just know when I was done, I felt a bit more free than I had before it, and all the thoughts, visions, and scenes in my head stopped. It was done. I wouldn’t see anymore. This is always the one I reread:



Peaceful Turmoil

© 2002, by Lauren L. Canfield, All Rights Reserved.

April 16, 2002

I: Past

The light in the distance is moving closer;
My hand grips the soft, velvety grass I’m laying on.
It’s bigger and bigger, falling faster and faster.
I close my eyes and sleep.
So many dreams and visions inhabit me;
The pain of years long past visit me and depart,
Never to return again, though I cling to them,
Trying to capture a moment’s understanding
Of a heart so defined by hurt.

The visions fade, all turns black,
Mountains of bodies appear, fall, crumble,
With limbs flying here and there like pebbles
Cascading down a hillside.
Dropping into a river of red, they are washed away,
Only to find their destination in the ocean,
The sea.
The souls of the dearly departed beckon
From the sea of tears cast down upon their death
And spiritless, their souls leech onto the newcomer’s
Strong, nubile body so unused to the currents and undertows.
The body swims amongst the decaying bodies,
Gruesome, defiling itself, yet reveling in it,
If only for the cleansing must happen.
Years of watching loved ones die from actions
Caused by my hand have sullied me,
Caked me in muddy ugliness,
And, forced her to swim amongst the ruin,
Damned for all eternity in the pain I have caused.

Particulars resurrected,
Given more chances than some
To make good their past misdeeds
Shrivel underneath the hot, blistering sun
While the waters that fed the ones they hurt,
Draw away in repulsive anger.
Yet, still the souls seek to quench inside,
The ignoble tyranny that binds them to kill,
Destroy, maim, and corrupt the hills of righteousness they dared to climb.

Martyrs fallen,
Dying with the heat of passion
For some higher purpose,
Known only to a god or a king,
And never explained to the happy participants
Surrendering their rights
To be told the truth of what they are.
Evil permeating every thread of being,
Wrapping each body and spirit in some desire
For all that is defined by men writing rules
On things that can all but be destroyed.
Morals, absolutes, fall to the wayside
As another sword is brought up in the hand
Of an opponent so riddled with curses and lies,
His very nature is suspect within his own kin.
Yet, still, his quench is unsatisfied, and the martyr falls,
Willing victim, honored forevermore.

The light in the distance is moving closer;
My hand grips the soft, velvety grass I’m laying on.
It’s bigger and bigger, falling faster and faster.
I close my eyes and sleep.

II. Present

Strong currents pull me along a thread
Woven so deeply in a fabric, and I cast myself a spell,
Reckoning I might make it to leap out of this tapestry
One so horrendously mistook me for being part of.
I stare down at where I come from and see happy little flowers
Woven to look like wind dancing angels,
While my fellow strong spirits pass their time in
Winsome meanderings.
Hard is the lump in my throat, moving down
As it settles in my stomach, I erupt
In a spasm of anger and irrational fear
As I do not wish to be woven in so tight to never break free
From the paradise someone’s mind cast me to be in.
All along the river of time, I cast my net and wonder
Just how many fish this time will appear in my net
And how many more will swim free, unafraid of the ominous spirit
Sitting beside and casting his own, much larger net a ways down the stream.
Feeling quite proud that they lived past my net,
When they are tangled in his, they flop,
Stupidly waiting for him to draw them up
And swallow them whole.
Silly fishes they seem, so free to the spirit who takes them,
Yet, they’re trapped, prisoners in a cell,
They never divined, yet always loved.

And finally, I come to the final painting, hanging on the wall,
Casting odd shapes here and there in some
Panic-stricken landscape that only the artist can see and know.
Some educated art collector will one day stand before it,
Ironically proclaiming the truth of what it is,
While the artist lies dead, consumed by time’s wear,
In a tomb with only his spirit to stand in the room,
Listening to the ironic drivel of the man in front,
Who hopes to make it rich off of someone else’s means.

III. Future

Angelic beauties flutter around their idyllic meadows,
Picking flowers and giving the scene such pretty images
Of happiness, love, faith and devotion,
All mixed with the symbols of hope:
If you do good, little children, life’s gifts will be revealed to you
Upon the death you so fear. So live good, dear children,
And may we shine our smiles and blessings upon you once more.

And yet, still I stare up,
Lying on my back on grass freshly mowed,
And still, I stare up,
Supposedly being blessed by angels above,
Dropping a fairy dust of sort on my silly head,
Which gathers such gruesome images for them to scold me for.
And yet, while I stare up, I see no mysterious truth revealed,
And the light is pulling away, as I realize I’ve been taken from my
Solitary lesson in life’s confusing ways,
And I am forever lost to that which I saw.
I stare up, not on grass, but on sheets,
And I see not a sky, but a white ceiling,
And the light is not a star, a comet, or a sun,
But only the final light pushed over,
As the doctor searches my body,
For signs of struggle,
And removes the grass still stuck under fingernails,
And sighs as such a young one was consumed
By so cruel a fate.

I stand over him and smile, walk on my way,
And whistle.
The visions plague me no more.

I am free.




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Posted by on 08/08/2014 in Uncategorized