The Music of My Soul is Poetry©
Over the years, I've written so many stories. Some of these come from the various disasters I've worked. Some from just everyday life. Some from the mind of a Wandering Story Teller. If I live to be 100, I'll never get all my stories written and all my places and characters created. Poetry is my heart though.
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Soft Landing
In a swirling like that of a tornado,
I was swept away, into the clouds
My journey was brilliant at first;
My way was clear and easy.
Then an evil wind blew
And I found myself lost in tumultuous events.
Storm clouds blocked my way,
Evil Beings hurled trouble at me like large hailstones.
Though I searched for days
To find my way back home,
No pathway appeared,
No Angels came to rescue.
Many years, I wandered the earth
In search of home,
Clues would appear,
And make no sense
Yet I followed their direction.
Today, a swirl of storm clouds
Encircle my life
Threatening, always threatening.
Why won’t they leave me alone?
The bright moonlit evenings
Where love is alive in the Ionosphere
Are only fading memories now,
As are laughter, joy and peace.
Though these considerations trouble my soul
Creating deep pain at their remembrance,
I have no hope of finding my home.
I have no one to hold me till the shaking stops.
With wide eyes, and a last glimmer of hope,
I search the skies above
For clouds that will transport me away
Crying out to God for a Soft Landing.
Carolyn L. Sorrell Copyright © June 2016 – All Rights Reserved
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SONGS AMIDST THE STARS
Distant horns that blow music
To my jaded ears.
Siren's voices that sing me
Dangerous Lullabies.
Cruel melodies from amidst the stars
Find me and taunt.
Their words are soft…at first,
But quickly they point the finger.
Accusations!
I cannot escape their angry rhythm.
Copyright 2004 - Carolyn L Sorrell - All Rights Reserved
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A LIFE ABANDONED
As a disaster relief worker, I know these feelings well.
You leave a towel on the doorknob of your bedroom. That’s the towel you used to dry off after the last shower you would take before hitting the road again to chase yet another storm. It will be there waiting when you return months later.
You leave pets, friends, favorite activities. You won’t be able to water the flowers around your back porch anymore….not till you return and it will likely be winter then and all the plants will be dead or hibernating.
You’ll miss waving at the neighbor when you put your trash out on the road. Or yelling ‘hello’ to the postman when he sticks bills in your mailbox.
All these so-called ‘normal activities’ we each take for granted are what I miss the most. This year I haven’t let myself be melancholy over leaving these things behind.
How could I when so many thousands have no homes to return to?
Mine will be here. Waiting. That white towel will still be hanging on that doorknob when I walk back into my house months from now. My cat will miss me, but she’ll still be there too.
Not so with many of those whose homes were destroyed along the Gulf Coast. The lives they knew and perhaps loved, are gone. Just a memory now.
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ALONE
I sit alone in my car eating ice cream
Caramel, nuts, vanilla
I tell myself it’s okay.
What else can I say?
I sit alone at Black-Eyed-Pea
Rolls, gravy, Iced tea.
I stand alone inside a Walmart store
Watches, tomatoes,
And so much more.
I drive alone in my car
Beneath the sun,
Beneath a star.
I wonder for the thousandth time
That all but me have family.
Perhaps, I rationalize,
You’ve done some wrong
That is why you’re all alone.
Perhaps you’ve committed
Some mortal sin
When you repent
That is when
You won’t sit alone
Each and every day
Lie to yourself
And say it’s okay.
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MOVING AWAY
He’s moving away now.
His shadow falls lightly
Across dingy tile.
My eyes squeeze shut,
My heart recalling
The tender lilt of his mouth.
Now a shadow falls again,
But over my soul this time,
As he moves away.
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Of Unfastened Ear
My soul sings aloud
Of wounds that cannot heal.
It sings notes of aching heart
Out of tune with its world.
My heart searches
For melodies of
Understanding
And lyrics of healing.
My years sing
A strange cry--
A peculiar melody
Heard only with unfastened ear.
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Below is an excerpt from my autobiography:
Often, I’d have dreams, vivid dreams, usually in color. I’d write those down too. I could tell when the dreams meant something and when they were just regular dreams. One warm summer night I had this dream:
I awoke to find Mary Schelly in my bedroom. When I got up to put on a housecoat, I found Ernest Hemingway standing by the corner of the room.
Mary was trying to explain to Ernest how she came up with the idea for Frankenstein. Surprisingly, she says that she drew his character and the idea for him from her husband, a neighbor and a friend…Frankenstein was actually a composite of people she knew.
Just then, Shakespeare appeared. He began to go on and on about how much the live theater had changed. He seemed very upset about the changes. “She ain’t what she used to be,” he claimed, quoting an old song lyric.
I remember thinking that he shouldn’t know the lyrics to “The Old Gray Mare”. It was written in 1843 and Shakespeare died in 1616.
I watched Mary, Ernest and William for a few more moments, listening as they discussed the theater. Finally, I told myself that I must be dreaming. So I left the bedroom and walked out onto the front porch. The moon was full and the night breeze was warm and smelled of herbal grasses.
Much to my dismay, I glanced around to see that the trio had followed me. Also, they had been joined by Edgar Allen Poe. He was always one of my favorites and influenced my writing quite considerably, so I was eager to speak to him.
Edgar turned out to be a glum fellow who suffered with depression. He didn’t say very much at all. He seemed apprehensive about something.
We stood on the porch for a while, just relaxing and talking about our favorite characters and stories. “Why don’t we go make coffee?” I finally asked. “If we’re going to stay up all night talking, we need some coffee.”
“Splendid idea!” remarked William, and he headed for the door.
“I’d rather have whiskey,” Ernest said, “but oh well!” And he too headed for the door.
Edgar pushed in front of Ernest and Mary, making his way back into the house. He went straight to the kitchen as if he’d lived there all his life, opened the refrigerator door and found a pitcher of orange juice. “Mmm, I’ll have this,” he said, going to search for a glass.
When everyone had their drink of choice, we headed back out onto the front porch to enjoy the cool night air.
“Get the door will you, William?” said Mary with a cup of coffee in one hand and a bagel in the other.
“Sure enough, Mary. And please…just call me “Bill”. William sounds too formal.”
Each of us found a chair and pulled them into a circle of sorts and there we sat in the dark drinking our beverages and discussing art, music and literature. Ernest kept wanting to talk about how much life had changed for “gay” people since his time, while William…or Bill shared his latest idea for a new play.
The next morning when I awoke, I lay in bed for an hour, going over the whole dream in my mind. It had seemed so real and I honestly felt like I knew those writers from then on. They were my muses now. They would come to assist me whenever I was struggling with a story. They helped me craft my stories from then on.
The Music of My Soul is Poetry.
My Room With No Doors
My world is full of windows No doors exist here.
I can see out, But not leave this place.
I was happy here For many years,
Just looking out Onto the world.
I was content to stay Standing at my windows,
Making my observations, Living, but not really.
One day a storm came thru Blowing hard and fierce.
It blew down the walls of my room Exposing me to the elements.
I’ve sat huddled here For many days since
Fearful-- Of what may lie out there.
People say it’s a scary place. They say it’s dangerous.
They tell you to be careful. They’re only trying to help.
Still, I pack my things Leaving my room
For the last time Venturing out into the great unknown.
Who knows what I will find Perhaps there are mountains
I haven’t seen. Perhaps a lake
Where I can swim.
The dread and the danger Lie behind me now
A crumpled heap of rotting boards
Once the walls of my room.
I walk away smiling;
Newfound courage fills me.
I can journey into the unknown,
The unfamiliar. Fearless.
Whatever I find there
Whatever falls in my pathway,
I will never return
To my room with no doors.
Carolyn L. Sorrell - Copyright 1997 - All Rights Reserved
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“I'VE FORGOTTEN SOMETHING”
I’ve forgotten something.
Something more real, more wonderful.
A flickering memory comes, At times,
And for a moment, I remember.
The shape of it . . .Innocence . . .
As of a seedling sprouting in moist, fertile soil.
I’ve forgotten something.
The sight of it left me breathless.
The thought of leaving it brought melancholy.
It was special, Had the look of gold.
Glistening voices From a green expanse of clover
Sang to me Amusing tales of delight,
Gifted,
And then fled.
I’ve forgotten something.
It was rare, remarkable.
Playful escapades that made no sense--But were delightful.
Days that ran on endlessly, And smelled of rainy woods.
Bewildering fascination as if witnessing birth
Or death.
I’ve forgotten something.
It was like the ecstasy of your first love;
The call of owl and dove at sunset;
Breaking twigs for a campfire.
Just for a moment, a glimpse,An extraordinary caress,
Curious admiration for the common,
And the stunning . . .
And then it was gone.
Carolyn L. Sorrell - Copyright© 1994 – All Rights Reserved
