May 01, 2004

My Poetry


I stumble in a haze
seeking clarity and a reprieve
from this disease.
I have the need to grieve.
I cry over the treacherous pain,
I'm not stable, I'm a wavering loon
armed with a full bottle of psychotropics.
Detesting the label, the misnomer
that makes me furious,
all the while, I look sober.
These teeth marks in my arms
are evidence of your insistence
on routing out some new disease,
the needle probing and curious.

Heather Wilcox


The old raw rice grain
I stepped on
is like a thorn in my foot,
I am reminded of my need to leave.
The spider web roof
can't keep out the rain;
my sunlight omniscience
knows your soul.
You taught me that
he who increases knowledge,
increases sorrow.
You sing your words like a hymn and
leaving I trip over devil's bones.

Heather Wilcox

The Toll Booth

Gibson was down
six years
for robbing a toll booth,
and moved
from hospital to hospital
for the criminally insane.
He worked
for sixty cents an hour,
in a kitchen,
washing the dishes
of serial killers
and child molesters,
before being exonerated.
The man,
fifty years old,
with wavy, silver hair,
disheveled like his beard,
speaks of his new
Bible reference guide;
it never occurred to him
to question
How God
(if there is one),
could allow this to happen.
His intelligent, blue,
Missouri eyes
have forgotten working the farm,
as he sits rocking,
waiting for a free cup of hot tea.

Heather Wilcox

Body Song

Her voice is like a blessing bell,
calling him,
a body song which
fills the big empty.
The spirit of gravity
reminds him
we are captives
in our glasshouse atmosphere.
Her name melts on his tongue like the
soul of an intention inside a Eucharist.
His desire is as skinless as a sunbeam
through a stained glass window;
but she is as needy as a mirror and her
eyes as bright as dimes.
Feather brained she waits for his return
not knowing how to love.
The long drives, the dashboard confessions
bring a soft focus to life
and a sleepy melancholy.

Heather Wilcox

Sounds like Dyslexia

Is it mottled mushrooms
and mashed marshmallows;
or is it a yellow pad corn
and carrots crunchy orange?
Isn't an accent just an accident?
Did she lose her elasticity or her ethnicity?
Did the roach roast?
Was it apostrophe or hyperbole?
Maybe it is just synchronicity,
serendipity, synecdochy or
Does it sound like a symphony?

Heather Wilcox


Come away with me,
we can catch shooting stars
on our tongues,
wash our hair
when it rains and comb out our bangs.
Then brush our teeth with an ax,
because we have so much plaque.
We can carry the water in a
quart sized berry picking basket,
singing a tisket a tasket.
We can eat marginalia
like this poem,
and breathe miasma,
since we don't have asthma.
If a screwdriver can start a truck,
then maybe the hen will have luck,
when we sell her a lottery ticket.
A golden egg, the hen can't fake it.

Heather Wilcox

Posted by Butterfly Emerging at May 1, 2004 02:22 PM | TrackBack


Beautiful! They take me to emotions, running the gambit, and make me feel for you and for my son who also is a poetic, artistic young man with a (your) mental disorder. I'll share some with you.

You Are:

Sad and sitting
in the rain
scrawling nonsense
on yellowing copy-paper,
on the islands of self,
staring blindly
out at the world,
as it rockets by
at the speed
of sanity.

a solution:

representing observation,
above influence,
a gorgeous whisper,
in time,
love is essential, valid, and raw,
and the moon,
yet upon my water,
urges me,
to give without ache,
the gift of repose.


My mind is molding,
like so many peaches
in canvas sacks,
and it seeps out
in a gaze filled with rot
and appears on my countenance
as a general distaste
and bad posture.

from the dark ages:
at night.
I hear
(the screams of stuck pigs,
with ball-gags poised and ready
[straight jackets
securely fastened]
and the silhouette of a chair,
looming ominously overhead,
as I ride the lightning
through sunsets and atop
while monkeys clatter [against monoliths
and demigods]
) for the fourth time today.


your synapses are like
snails making
no connections
or irrelevant
ones twos and threes
all about the fours it must
fives now, all about the
numerology, the
Hebrew of it all.

when i liked life:

sometimes I just
can't help but wish
that life was like it was

poem for a girl:

all I did
was force myself
to forget you.

good and bad:

"Good" is virtual
and so are you.

"Bad" is intangible
and touches you too.
when I liked life.


I measure cold's quantity
against my own body
and crouch to write
that it is indeed
a separate thing altogether
than heat.

full like Barbados:

I am full like Barbados,
and all the people here
belong someplace else.

Posted by: Melanie Bigelow at May 6, 2004 06:11 AM

Sorry, I split up this poem in the comment before, messing it up and the one after it.

when i liked life:

sometimes I just
can't help but wish
that life was like it was
when I liked life.

good and bad:

"Good" is virtual
and so are you.

"Bad" is intangible
and touches you too.


Posted by: Melanie Bigelow at May 6, 2004 06:18 AM

I love your writing Heather! It's very honest yet beautiful. I can't say that I know how you feel, but I understand your struggle. I am bipolar and while it's not the same as schizophrenia, it's a mental illness nonetheless and it causes me a great deal of anguish and heartache. I'm glad that you are able to be open about your struggles. It's a lot harder for me to talk about mine. I always feel as if people are going to be too judgmental for me to bear.

Posted by: Angela at January 18, 2007 07:07 PM

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