Today I thought I’d share a poem I wrote when my bipolar symptoms were in evidence–one that, I think, illustrates the chatter that, even now, I push aside but hear vaguely in the background–a whisper that back-drops and wall papers my expereince of almost everything–every bowl of cereal I eat, every peice of paper I pick up,  every book,  every door I close or open or slam shut, hoping to silence the sing-song.

This is what my head says . . .

The back of the truck

     is let down and I am

     in the street again

                lines down

          the center of the roadway

                yellow voices

 

The color of a dress I had

     age three

                yellow roses on the bodice

                yellow roses on the table

          where the place is set

                for us to eat zucchini

                and avocado and other vegetables

          with green skin that must be peeled

                away before consuming

 

Before comes earlier than after

               as does the obvious

              preacher talk

     of Jesus saving other people

                from their sin

 

Sin is always in the third person