Emptiness
by Beverlee Blampied (c)Dark clouds hang low in the sky
Engulfing me in a cloud of depression
And wrapped in emptiness
I stand awkwardly
Conscious of every move
Thinking before reacting
To even a smile
Half grins
Never seem to make loud laughs
The spontaneous kind
I'd like to feel just once
I listen eagerly to music
Yet I can't move
My hands feel a need
But can't express
Only inside I feel
And through my sensitive skin
I want to reach out
Yet instead
I can only scream
Silently
Depression
By Beverlee Blampied (c)A private place
This mind of mine
A secret world
Enclosed by emptiness
But trespassed by pain
A personal possession
Fully experienced with nature's rage
Withdrawn
Closed to life
With all it's unfilled promises
Appearing incapable of asserting character
Of coping or existing
Yet all the while searching
For answers
That can not be found
An Evening Stroll
It had been and extremely hot, heavy and very still third day of a long weekend. When the heat and strength of the sun had begun to lessen somewhat, and a slight breeze wafted through the giant trees lining our front yard, I decided to go for an evening stroll.
I walked across the lush, green field behind our country home, about a 3 block distance, to the old train line and began my hike along the railway tracks, the heat of the steel burning through the soles of my shoes, and then I slid down the path to the creek. It felt strange to be there. For a while I lay on my stomach and stared into the water, but everything that could move was in hiding from the sun. Even if you poked about you would only get a brief flurry of activity and then stillness again. Across the creek, at the entrance to the forest, I heard voices, though I knew I couldn’t have. No one ever came here, and no one else had access to our private road. I scrambled up the side of the bank, using the tufts of grass as hand-holds, and hauled myself onto the flat, grassy top. There were voices. Definitely there were. I stood up and peered over the side.
A woman was standing, somewhat slumped, under the swaying branches of an old maple tree, waving her arms frantically. Because of the rustling forest noises I could not clearly hear what she was saying. She appeared to be lost in an animated discussion, but with whom? No other person was in sight.
From my vantage point I recognized that she had been the Librarian of our small town library for many years. I knew her by sight. She had a worried, tired face, marked with acne scars and old age spots. She was always slumped, like someone who had long felt ashamed. She had answered questions, checked out books and often read ghost stories aloud to the children of the local elementary school on their ‘visit to the library’ day. You used to see her at the Circulation Desk, five days a week, except holidays. On holidays, she usually disappeared.
She had, though, several years ago, come to see us on one long holiday weekend. She brought us something, wrapped in a large, oblong container, and I can remember her standing at the door, asking me how we all were, and I remember that although she was looking right at us, you could tell that she wasn’t paying attention to our replies. She seemed to be listening for something - listening over her shoulder, so to speak. She seemed to be waiting for a crisis and was anxious to leave. I remember she turned at the end of the lane, but not in the direction of her home, and with the package still in her hands.
Across the creek her voice got louder and I could now hear the words pain and sorrow and evil. She knelt down and began to dig with her hands. Out of nowhere, and handed to her by no one, a large, oblong container appeared, wrapped just as the one she had intended to deliver to our house. She quickly buried it in the open hole, covering it with loose dirt and stones. She sat back against the tree, with her face in her dirt stained hands, while another voice spoke loudly of empty feelings and promises broken, of life and death and parallel roads - it was like a conversation with the dead.
A rush of wind whipped through the woods and I spun around quickly as I felt a hand placed on my shoulder. No one was there. When I turned again toward the maple tree, it, too, had disappeared.
Silent Screams
By Beverlee Blampied (c)
Is life just a dream
None of it real
A delusion, a dress rehearsal
For an after life
A play -
Acted with true emotion
Offering the feel of reality
With me
Always outside the chilly winds
Always observing
In a silence that surrounds me
Alone
Searching
At a point beyond the stars
Where no one hears
My silent screams
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