CAPTIVE by Therese Staples Burton

I am my own captive, held within invisible walls.

Unseen yet I feel them, know they are there.

A glass house contains a part of my soul.

I move behind impregnable walls raging with inner turmoil.

Fear, angst keep me immured.

Limits placed by society force me to conform, keeping the lock on this

Prison.

Creativity that burns, glows within this glass dome.

Feel the intense need to create war with the boundaries of society.

I stand within myself gazing at all I desire.

Frustration rips my soul.

Within captivity dreams soar, lighting the sky,

Brilliant swirls, sparks flash, colors dance.

Walls crash down to enclose the glory. Walls of bondage

Created by rejection, misinterpretation and false shame.

I am my own captive, all that pulses within ready to implode,

Waiting to

Be set free.

                                                               -Image & Words by Therese

I Want To Draw

I want  to draw a world where
Cancer ..has finally been cured!
A world full of colors- bright,
beautiful, splashes of
fun.
Where children are safe in
their homes, and neighbors
look out for each other, instead of
saying "It's not my problem".
I want to draw a world ..
where people care
about each other
friends, strangers..
what would that look like?
What shapes? Colors?
Do I use pencil. ink ?
Can something so delicate
and ever changing
be done in paint?
Acrylic, Oil, or Watercolor?

I want to draw a world
where every pet has
a good home, no more
discarding, hurting, abandoning,
these precious creatures.
It's a world without the
horrific Puppy Mills-
here every one adopts.

I want to draw a world
where Spring and
Summer
are the longest
seasons.
Where Autumn's beauty
is always amazing.

In this world  I am a Mom, In
this world I was never abused,
never got stage IV- since there was
a cure.
In this world I want to draw-
I create the life I never lived.
                                  -Sharon

REPOSITORY by Elizabeth Hipwell

En-wrapped, sweaty limbs
All consumed in black
A quickening heartbeat clutching the fear
Getting a whiff of tangy metal
A bit stifling
My tear stained mug buried within the confines of a desk
It's smooth lack of warmth
Giving off an odor of the handy #2 writing utensil
I'm free from danger 
In the safe nest of my elementary school library
My selfdom aching and splintered as a result of being terrorized by my peers
Now
In this moment
In my sanctuary
Out of harm's way
Finally!

Institutional bulbs radiate down and creep through my fisted digits

Whispering, "Hey! Everything will be okay. Come back when                     

                       you can and the two of us will be able to depart                     

                       on a journey and escape from this harsh reality."

As my heart slows and I take a deep inhalation

I lift my visage to take in the numerous volumes

(A lot for a kid of eleven years of age!)

Just gazing at the many texts fills me with inner faith

They

With their worn bindings discolored pages

My salvation

These books are my treasure trove

I grin

Taking in the expansive apertures to the outside luminescence of the sun

And twist around

Inching my manufactured chair

To take in the potential of literary odysseys of other outsiders and black sheep

It's secure here

I feel at ease

Heartened that this misery shall pass

As long as I have a book repository

That enriches me with the gift of deliverance from this hell

                    -Image & Words by Elizabeth Hipwell

ON THE STREETS OF KAMORA by Elizabeth Hipwell

On the streets of Kamora,
a man sits at the Fountain of Angels,
eyeing the days offerings
which lie at the bottom
of the tepid water.
The man remembers when he was 
one of the click clacking masses,
on their way to work,
in the Main Dome of Kamora,
ready to pass ordinances
which allowed dogs on leashes in the park,
bettering and improving the city,
keeping it’s cobblestones,
which were erected in eras past.
The man remembers losing his position
and being put on the street 
because the cost of living in Kamora came too high.
He sits where he can,
sleeps where he can
eats what he can.
The underbelly of Kamora is paved with grease and dirt.
The great unwashed populate the parks at night.
No clickety clacks.
more ting tinging and swish swash.
The man notices all the details of Kamora,

what he was too busy to notice in “better” times.
The mosaics of the great buildings 
with the echoes of it’s former prominence.
                                                      -Liz Hipwell

BOUND by Elizabeth Hipwell

All bound up.
Twisted and tied.

How do I unravel the nuances of the past?

What’s done is done.
That’s what they say.
Let go and move on.

Snap snap.
Do it now.
No dwelling.
How dare you have feelings.

Get over it.
She died two months ago.
Stop dwelling and isolating.
Get over it.

Snap snap.
Do it now.
No dwelling.

Feelings are feelings.
What good do they do?

They help process and grieve what is done.
They help you move on, unburdened by the tug of the past.

No snap snap.
No do it now.
Dwell as long as you need to until you finally let go.

You know what it’s like
To be unburdened
To be light.

Image & Words by Elizabeth Hipwell

THE BASEMENT DOOR by Therese

     Silently calling my name a mysterious power pulls me toward the door. A deep foreboding rises in my belly and warns me of impending doom. I must cross through the laundry room to reach the door. Leaving the relative safety of the well-lit kitchen the heavy odor of mildew and dirty clothes assail my nose.

     Balls of dryer lint are carelessly strewn about mixed into layers-clothes, towels, laundry soap boxes and dryer sheets. The bottom layers are wet from the leaking washing machine and dog urine. adding to the stench is an overflowing litter box and the remains of afterbirth from a litter of kittens born on a pile of towels. clean unfolded clothes wait in vain on  top of a large rusting freezer chest.

     There it is on the right stuck half open-the dreaded basement door. The grimy light switch is left of the door. I must tread across the filth to reach it. Flipping the switch and steeling my courage I press forward to the landing lit only  by one small incandescent bulb. It glows a sickly dim yellow above me refusing to penetrate past the darkness of the stairwell.

     Creaking the old worn steps threaten to give way under me. With my throat tightening I grasp the loose wooden handrail with trembling hands. My feet slide into the shallow hollows created by countless years of use. I feel the unnatural sensation of being watched and I shiver.

     As my eyes slowly adjust to the dark, I see the pull chain to the only light hovering in the center of the room. I take a deep breath and gingerly advance one shaky step at a time. Nervously I search the shadows created by the small amount of sunlight squeezing through the windows dripping with dust and spider webs. I am ready to bolt at the slightest motion. Avoiding shallow oily puddles from the last flooding rain I squelch across the floor and reach the chain. As another chill shakes my spine I pull and turn on the light swinging on its long dangling cord.

     Finally I see my goal-a sagging shelf lined with dusty glass jars of food. Quickly I grab several jars of peaches and green beans. Half running I race back to the stairs./ I feel a strange pulling sensation in the middle of my back, but I am too shaken to look over my shoulder afraid of what I might see. Through the half open door I bolt, the malevolent air follows along. I stumble over the accumulated waste and reach the well-lit kitchen. Sighing with relief I place the hard earned jars on the table. Then it hits me, I left the lights on!
                                                         -Therese

SIREN SONG by Therese

Forming music in my brain.
Just can't get it into paint.
Rhapsody in raucous reds.
Midnight blues, furious hues.
Devilish noises resound in my head.
Lips silenced by society's dread.
One does not talk of mental ills.
Just be polite, and take your pills.
On a good day the world is grey.
A flaccid smile upon my face.
A mask to hide the thunderous roll.
Drums beating and lightening's flash.
Destruction of any calm I had.
Lulling siren of the deep dark dream.
She croons a lullaby.
Bewitched I cannot look away.
Grasping me gently in her devious hands.
Struggling babe in beguiling arms.
I slip into a pallid daze.
                                  -Image & Words by Therese                          
           (Originally published in TURNING CORNERS)