Dirty Hands- March 1st 2019
Spirals of songs
ringing into my mp3 ears
songstruck grabbing at bits and pieces
lyrics licking the palms
of dirty hands.
the gift of singular melody
ringing into my mp3 ears
grabbing at puzzles reaching for words
hearing everything like the first time
lyrics licking the palms
of dirty hands.
sooner than later
dancing will lead to poetry
then it will lead to twisting
and bending into art supplies
lingering music towards motion
sketchbooks opening without pause
these lyrics licking the palms
will lead to drawing
oil pastels or pencils or charcoal
covering these dirty hands.
Broken- by Emily H. Sturgill
Bipolar disorder broke my brain in two poles.
With my medications I walk a tightrope between these poles
depression and mania…..I try daily to slip into the inbetweenness of these two things.
medicine helps but it does not cure. It only helps to contain a balance of semi-stability.
So yes I”ve got a broken brain.
Also I’ve got a broken Uterus. I have Endometriosis Stage 4. A fancy way of brokeness…
I hurt a lot of the time. It’s the worst whenever I am bleeding. Crumpled into layers of pain cramping aching stabbing screaming agony of pain. I’m hurting today in fact. Despite my period not due for two more days my broken uterus spits brownish blood and I know that means to hell with the calendars my period’s starting early. Up until 2015 I was taking opiods for the pain. Then I went through the process of applying for a medical marijuana card. I got off opiods. Now instead of pain daily from my endometriosis I’ve only got pain during my periods and during ovulation…..
A broken Uterus. A history of Infertility. Two pregnancies=Two miscarriages.
It’s a fancy form of brokeness. It’s a double whammy. A broken brain. A broken Uterus.
But deep down inside beneath all of the broken things is my poetry is my stories is my spirit and my soul-even beneath all of that is my heart which is strong unflinching warm and consistently unbroken. It beats on and on-unbroken. And beneath this broken brain and broken uterus is an unbroken girl grasping at straws and pulling like weeds from the ground fistfulls of words which fall to my feet into puddles of poetry.
Deep desert of desolation
Easy to slip into
Restricted access to breathe.
Evenly spaced out.
Seldom talked about.
Sickness deeply felt.
The Table top poem by Emily Sturgill
A woman filled with the mourning of
the loss of her husband
put his hunting jacket on the table.
She also placed his fishing gear, hooks and tackle on the table.
She put her memories of him into their children and grandchildren.
The stories he would tell She put the words into her dry mouth telling
them to all who would listen especially on the holidays.
After 40 years of marriage a stranger murdered her husband.
She had never met this stranger before but he was introduced to the couple
three years before her husband’s death as Stomach Cancer.
Unfortunately due to her grief the woman has to be reminded of the happy times She had with her husband by her children and friends. The couple with one half missing now have a great grandchild.
She changes into her nightgown putting her heart on her sleeve and goes to bed into a dreamless sleep.
Written for Gary and Deborah Sturgill in 2011. Gary passed in April 2006.
Tomorrow I will be offering three of my poetry and artist chapbooks as free downloads off amazon.com’s kindle platform. The titles of these books are:
- Sex in the kitchen sink : poetry and art
- Once I was the rain poetry and artwork
- Red Bones: poetry and artwork
all can be found on my author’s page. Here is a link:
The free sale runs for five days starting tomorrow. If you download and enjoy please consider submitting a review on my author’s page.
loose lipped tangles of sentences
poetry and prose and stories
tumbling out in a dry spell
words in a spin cycle washing away
confusion and empty pages
pouring down a page
like so much rain
washing away writer’s block
covering an inky stain
writing on repeat
tumble dry low
and add fabric softner.
Lost in stardust, lost in daylight, lost in thoughts.
I even lost an old poem I’d written.
I had posted it prior to this blog in 2011 on yahoo.com’s associated content but
the link no longer works. I cannot find which journal I had written it in.
It was called ” The Table top poem.” by Emily Sturgill.
It figures that I would lose that. I lose everything eventually and especially my mind.
I have not been blogging. My poems do not flow. They are stuck to the roof of my mouth tasting like so much cigarette ash. The words clog up. Feeling sort of lonely but good to be alive. Lost in stardust, lost in daylight, lost in thoughts.
go swiftly into
the darkened night
my beautiful gray russian blue
go swiftly into a rainbow bridge
I will stroke your fur one last time
as I cry these horrible teardrops
which feel heavy salty with bitter regrets.
go swiftly into darkened night
go gray beautiful sweet kitty
i will always remember our 16 years
together as owner and friend
go swiftly and silently to sleep
closing those emerald eyes one last time
but before you go always know
I have loved you long and well
I will miss you so.
Rest in peace my gray ghost Godzilla.
Barren white landscape
walking in drifts of snow
beneath my feet is ice
wind whipped hair
chapped natural crimson lips
cracked hands covered by cotton gloves
winter’s envelope touches the sky
empty branches nothing grows
in the ice cold snow
except Winter Blues.
Surreal down to my stomach by Emily H. Sturgill 4/4/15
(All rights reserved-but can be re-posted as long as you credit myself & my blog- All Artwork & Images also by Emily Sturgill.
Surreal down to my Stomach
Swallowing coffee along with
my vowels, consonants, poetry
vomiting here and there
words on my pages
Surreal down to my toes
Eating fairy tales at breakfast
munching on the crunchy
internet with its crisp edges
and social networking sites
I eat them whole
with a gulp
but my eyes are too big
for my stomach.
tossing up cookies
throwing up twitter
puking up facebook
hoping to feel better.
Surreal down to my bones.
my bowels do not work
right or I would be
shitting out sentences
pissing out punctuation
defecating out imperfections.
But I cannot. Even sit straight.
I am nailed to my bed.
Attached to a couple of heating pads
choking on endometriosis
and puking out the Sun.
Time passes me by.
Always this cramping, constant feeling of unwellness.
Endometriosis has shattered my heart-beat
into two rhythms.
into two pumps of poetic pulsing
rapid flowing & cursing
pumps of blood.
Surreal down to my Skin.
Surreal down to my Stomach.
Surreal down to my toes.
Surreal down deeply-
surreal down to my bones.