Legacies
Desperately seeking comfort,
A strange peace of sorts I've found
With the bones of ancestral elephants
Upon their dying grounds.
Echos of the death songs
That linger in the air,
And the thunder of their passing
Have come to draw me there.
Dust whorls rising
From dry cracked earth,
Seem to contradict the reality,
Of any kind of birth.
Yet in the dancing heat waves
Just before the dusk,
To other than the naked eye
Comes the flash of tail and tusk.
For in sympathetic company,
They lay their burdens down.
Now knowing the peace of passing
They settle to the ground.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
“Beautiful Brown Eyes”
The first time I was invited to a “Club” party as an adult
I searched for differences through my newly grown up eyes.
I had been admitted, even if only temporarily,
to the inner circle.
Sitting alone at my table I scanned the room,
attempting to take in the nuances of change and growth.
There was daddy near the bar,
leaning against the wall amidst his “cronies”
a glass of rye whiskey & water in his hand
discussing the virtues of,
Winchesters vs. Remington,
12 gauge vs. 20 gauge,
setter vs. pointer,
fly-cast vs. reel-cast,
live bait vs. lures,
and, of course, laughing at the inevitable bawdy jokes.
Across the room, mama was seated in the open,
accessible to a steady stream of adoration,
from those who loved her for
coffee & empathy,
mothering & mentoring,
empathy & strength,
crocheting & wit,
listening & advice.
Her laughter drifted across the room,
like the scent of lilacs
through and open kitchen window.
Funny seeing them so did not make me feel more adult.
Instead I felt the comfort of childhood all around me.
The same familiar people I had always known,
beloved by an entire community.
Mama and daddy with
wisdom gained through years of struggle,
and small triumphs.
Mama and daddy
who could turn no one that hungered away,
no matter whether that hunger
was of the body or spirit.
Mama and daddy
who built a house and home,
with hands and hearts,
to surround us all
with love and warmth.
Mama and daddy
with a lifelong policy,
of open doors
and open hearts.
Grown and away from this safe haven,
My life changing
day by day
hour by hour,
indeed sometimes
moment by moment,
I longed to linger at this place,
in this space in time.
As daddy approached me
I listened as I always had,
for the creak and click
of the joint in his prosthetic leg.
A sound comforting in it’s familiarity
taking me back to those childhood nights,
when I would wake upon hearing it
and rise from my bed to be
rewarded with treats from his lunchbox.
Sitting alone at my table when
my daddy asked me, “May I have this dance?”
I passed from childhood to adulthood.
An instantaneous rite of passage
was this invitation to dance,
from a man who seldom danced
even with his wife of many years.
Silently holding back tears
I searched his face for the man,
whose little girl I had always been.
My fishing partner,
my shooting teacher,
the man who confided in me
things he had never shared with any other,
simply because I was never afraid to ask,
and just behind his bright blue eyes
I found that man still lingering.
His longing to freeze time,
to stop the clock,
no less intense than mine,
and I loved him all the more
for his restraint,
for his acceptance
of my adulthood.
Smiling up at him I gently declined
his offer of a dance.
Pointing out that with his prosthetic right leg
and my plastered left leg
we were a clumsy pair
with only two good legs between us.
We lingered together for a moment
at this place, in this space in time,
then smiling he turned
his prosthesis creaking and clicking
as he closed the distance
between himself,
and his beloved wife.
I watched him lead her to the dance floor,
her arthritic joints
making the going slow and painful.
Stopping for a moment he spoke to the band
and the strains of “Beautiful Brown Eyes” filled the room
as my daddy and mama began to dance,
one more dance.
The first time I was invited to a “Club” party as an adult
I searched for differences through my newly grown up eyes.
I had been admitted, even if only temporarily,
to the inner circle.
Sitting alone at my table I scanned the room,
attempting to take in the nuances of change and growth.
There was daddy near the bar,
leaning against the wall amidst his “cronies”
a glass of rye whiskey & water in his hand
discussing the virtues of,
Winchesters vs. Remington,
12 gauge vs. 20 gauge,
setter vs. pointer,
fly-cast vs. reel-cast,
live bait vs. lures,
and, of course, laughing at the inevitable bawdy jokes.
Across the room, mama was seated in the open,
accessible to a steady stream of adoration,
from those who loved her for
coffee & empathy,
mothering & mentoring,
empathy & strength,
crocheting & wit,
listening & advice.
Her laughter drifted across the room,
like the scent of lilacs
through and open kitchen window.
Funny seeing them so did not make me feel more adult.
Instead I felt the comfort of childhood all around me.
The same familiar people I had always known,
beloved by an entire community.
Mama and daddy with
wisdom gained through years of struggle,
and small triumphs.
Mama and daddy
who could turn no one that hungered away,
no matter whether that hunger
was of the body or spirit.
Mama and daddy
who built a house and home,
with hands and hearts,
to surround us all
with love and warmth.
Mama and daddy
with a lifelong policy,
of open doors
and open hearts.
Grown and away from this safe haven,
My life changing
day by day
hour by hour,
indeed sometimes
moment by moment,
I longed to linger at this place,
in this space in time.
As daddy approached me
I listened as I always had,
for the creak and click
of the joint in his prosthetic leg.
A sound comforting in it’s familiarity
taking me back to those childhood nights,
when I would wake upon hearing it
and rise from my bed to be
rewarded with treats from his lunchbox.
Sitting alone at my table when
my daddy asked me, “May I have this dance?”
I passed from childhood to adulthood.
An instantaneous rite of passage
was this invitation to dance,
from a man who seldom danced
even with his wife of many years.
Silently holding back tears
I searched his face for the man,
whose little girl I had always been.
My fishing partner,
my shooting teacher,
the man who confided in me
things he had never shared with any other,
simply because I was never afraid to ask,
and just behind his bright blue eyes
I found that man still lingering.
His longing to freeze time,
to stop the clock,
no less intense than mine,
and I loved him all the more
for his restraint,
for his acceptance
of my adulthood.
Smiling up at him I gently declined
his offer of a dance.
Pointing out that with his prosthetic right leg
and my plastered left leg
we were a clumsy pair
with only two good legs between us.
We lingered together for a moment
at this place, in this space in time,
then smiling he turned
his prosthesis creaking and clicking
as he closed the distance
between himself,
and his beloved wife.
I watched him lead her to the dance floor,
her arthritic joints
making the going slow and painful.
Stopping for a moment he spoke to the band
and the strains of “Beautiful Brown Eyes” filled the room
as my daddy and mama began to dance,
one more dance.
Monday, July 14, 2008
The Day I Lost My Voice
September, 30th, 1970
The young men in uniform look tired now.
Only a few moments ago they were all spit and polish as seven of them simultaneously fired three rounds skyward.
Taps echoes in my head and the shots startle me,
I struggle even now not to think of such a report and his body falling endlessly toward the dirt, as it does repeatedly in my dreams.
I am a spectator here, standing outside of myself, watching a Technicolor film.
Two young men in uniform remove the flag from the coffin.
They smartly fold it.
Their faces betray no emotion as one of them salutes, and the other performs a smart about face, closing the distance between himself and the young widow.
I watch silently as he presents this shroud to her.
Taking it to her chest she seems to melt to the ground.
The others are shaken and rush to attend her.
They lift her from the earth near the open grave and carry her toward the vehicles parked nearby.
The young men in uniform look tired now, and mama worries they have not eaten.
This is the second funeral they have attended today.
The Johnson boy was laid to rest this morning just up the hill.
The raw earth of his newly closed grave can be seen clearly from where we stand.
Mama asks someone to invite the young soldiers to the church.
She worries they are hungry and have a long ride back to base.
The officer in charge gratefully accepts and they board their bus to join the procession, back to the Disciples of Christ Church where the ladies have food and comfort waiting for us.
Reaching the familiar surroundings of the church basement I find a corner and make myself small.
I have had the ability to make myself small and unnoticeable for several years now.
I learned to do this when mama and daddy would fight before my older siblings moved away from home.
It was a skill I needed when they would leave me alone with my sisters and I was frightened by their battles.
When I was really, really scared I knew that if I made myself small enough no one would notice me and I would be safe.
I could become small by pulling all of me inside.
I knew that if I pulled hard enough, I became nearly invisible.
After awhile I no longer had to paint the picture in my mind of pulling in arms, legs and head,
I could feel it happening.
Once in awhile someone would see me, startling me into coming out with a word or touch, but lately since the phone call and telegram I don't worry so much about that happening. Mostly I worry that if I open my mouth and let words come out they will get all turned around becoming questions.
Questions are not good things anymore.
They make everyone around me cry or turn away.
The few grown ups who do offer answers always tell me things I don't understand.
Not understanding seems to make my mouth Want to allow more questions to come out.
I know that this will bring more tears, so mostly now I just stay small and watch.
Someone I don't recognize brings me a paper plate full of food.
I think some grown ups must have better eyes than others, because I am still very small.
I take the plate though I have no desire to eat. As I push the food around with a plastic fork I watch the room.
Mama is at a table with the young soldiers. She has tears in her eyes and all the soldiers look sad.
I find myself wondering if any of them have been to Vietnam,
if any of them will go there, and if any of them will die there.
I don't look closely at their faces for fear one day I will see them on the evening news, bloody and bandaged being carried to a waiting helicopter .
Keo R. Gathman
Little Sister of Gordon Kaye Gathman
Panel 7W, Row 77
Vietnam War Memorial
The young men in uniform look tired now.
Only a few moments ago they were all spit and polish as seven of them simultaneously fired three rounds skyward.
Taps echoes in my head and the shots startle me,
I struggle even now not to think of such a report and his body falling endlessly toward the dirt, as it does repeatedly in my dreams.
I am a spectator here, standing outside of myself, watching a Technicolor film.
Two young men in uniform remove the flag from the coffin.
They smartly fold it.
Their faces betray no emotion as one of them salutes, and the other performs a smart about face, closing the distance between himself and the young widow.
I watch silently as he presents this shroud to her.
Taking it to her chest she seems to melt to the ground.
The others are shaken and rush to attend her.
They lift her from the earth near the open grave and carry her toward the vehicles parked nearby.
The young men in uniform look tired now, and mama worries they have not eaten.
This is the second funeral they have attended today.
The Johnson boy was laid to rest this morning just up the hill.
The raw earth of his newly closed grave can be seen clearly from where we stand.
Mama asks someone to invite the young soldiers to the church.
She worries they are hungry and have a long ride back to base.
The officer in charge gratefully accepts and they board their bus to join the procession, back to the Disciples of Christ Church where the ladies have food and comfort waiting for us.
Reaching the familiar surroundings of the church basement I find a corner and make myself small.
I have had the ability to make myself small and unnoticeable for several years now.
I learned to do this when mama and daddy would fight before my older siblings moved away from home.
It was a skill I needed when they would leave me alone with my sisters and I was frightened by their battles.
When I was really, really scared I knew that if I made myself small enough no one would notice me and I would be safe.
I could become small by pulling all of me inside.
I knew that if I pulled hard enough, I became nearly invisible.
After awhile I no longer had to paint the picture in my mind of pulling in arms, legs and head,
I could feel it happening.
Once in awhile someone would see me, startling me into coming out with a word or touch, but lately since the phone call and telegram I don't worry so much about that happening. Mostly I worry that if I open my mouth and let words come out they will get all turned around becoming questions.
Questions are not good things anymore.
They make everyone around me cry or turn away.
The few grown ups who do offer answers always tell me things I don't understand.
Not understanding seems to make my mouth Want to allow more questions to come out.
I know that this will bring more tears, so mostly now I just stay small and watch.
Someone I don't recognize brings me a paper plate full of food.
I think some grown ups must have better eyes than others, because I am still very small.
I take the plate though I have no desire to eat. As I push the food around with a plastic fork I watch the room.
Mama is at a table with the young soldiers. She has tears in her eyes and all the soldiers look sad.
I find myself wondering if any of them have been to Vietnam,
if any of them will go there, and if any of them will die there.
I don't look closely at their faces for fear one day I will see them on the evening news, bloody and bandaged being carried to a waiting helicopter .
Keo R. Gathman
Little Sister of Gordon Kaye Gathman
Panel 7W, Row 77
Vietnam War Memorial
Ground Zero
Ground Zero (Epicenter) Definition: (DOD, NATO) The point on the surface of the Earth at, or vertically below or above, the center of an actual nuclear detonation.
When I was a small child in perhaps my first or second year of school, we still had nuclear attack drills in our classrooms. We were taught to “duck and cover”. “Ducking” under our desks and lying in a prone position with our feet facing the direction of the pretended blast. We were told to “cover” our heads with our arms while keeping our eyes tightly closed against the bright light an atomic bomb would create. This was supposed to help us survive in the case of a nuclear attack.
I was a precocious child, having grown up surrounded by siblings who were markedly older. I was also well aware of the fact my community was the home of the U.S. Air Force’s Strategic Air Command Headquarters, Offutt Air Force Base. I vividly remember taking a book under my desk with me during a drill and the lecture I later received from my teacher about the importance of taking the drills more seriously. She sternly told me that our actions, if we were faced with a nuclear attack by the Russians, could mean the difference between life and death. I was astonished that an adult could be so completely and totally naïve. I told her, “Don’t worry, we’re at Ground Zero, we won’t feel a thing”. I have never forgotten the look in her eyes as she processed my statement and realized that because of our proximity to Offutt we were very likely to be incinerated immediately should nuclear war happen.
Ground Zero is defined by the United States Department of Defense and NATO as; The point on the surface of the Earth at, or vertically below or above, the center of an actual nuclear detonation.
Today the site of the World Trade Center in New York City which was destroyed by terrorists on September 11th, 2001 has come to be referred to as Ground Zero. I have also seen the term used to describe the devastating effect a spate of sexual abuse revelations has had on the Roman Catholic Church. The term Ground Zero illustrates the horrendous effects both have had on the lives of not only direct victims but also those connected to them.
The original Ground Zero, Hiroshima, Japan must have just been coming awake at 8:15 in the morning on August 6th, 1945 when an atomic bomb called Little Boy was dropped from an American B29 bomber named Enola Gay. The 15-kiloton nuclear device detonated about 2000 feet over the city. Temperatures in the millions of degrees were generated immediately and the explosion sent a fireball out in all directions. Temperatures on the ground reached 7,000 degrees Fahrenheit instantly igniting anything combustible and melting tile and glass. Winds up to 620 miles per hour were unleashed destroying most of the buildings within a mile and half radius.
The affects of Little Boy, like those of the 9-11 attacks and widespread sexual abuse of children by Roman Catholic priests, makes Ground Zero an apt definition for both events. Those who were not instantly incinerated in Hiroshima that day were badly burned and exposed to very high levels of radiation. Most died within a few months and the estimate of deaths by the end of that year is 140,000. Deaths of victims from radiation poisoning brought the total estimated death toll to 200,000. Three days later a second atomic bomb was dropped on Nagasaki, killing an additional 70,000 and bringing the total deaths from both bombs to 270,000, mostly civilians.
Ground Zero for a child victim of sexual abuse plays a major role in the adult they become. Personal safety and trust are immediately burned to ash. My memories of the childhood molestations are fragmented and incomplete. However the memory of lying in the darkness after the first incident and feeling a great emptiness stands out starkly in my mind. It was as if the darkness was all there was, inside me and out. It was preferable to remain within the safety of that darkness, a place I could hide myself, a safe place. Was this my rite of passage into the adult world? Was that emptiness and darkness the loss of my innocence? I believe so, but this rite of passage unlike others came with fear, shame and secrecy rather than pride, a sense of accomplishment and positive guidance by an elder. The mind of a sexually abused child finds a way to deal with the betrayal and inability to comprehend the situation by dissociating, from the trauma. Sadly as the child reaches adulthood this dissociation leaves the wounded child self behind, alone in a world filled with fear, rage and grief……….
Keo R. Gathman
When I was a small child in perhaps my first or second year of school, we still had nuclear attack drills in our classrooms. We were taught to “duck and cover”. “Ducking” under our desks and lying in a prone position with our feet facing the direction of the pretended blast. We were told to “cover” our heads with our arms while keeping our eyes tightly closed against the bright light an atomic bomb would create. This was supposed to help us survive in the case of a nuclear attack.
I was a precocious child, having grown up surrounded by siblings who were markedly older. I was also well aware of the fact my community was the home of the U.S. Air Force’s Strategic Air Command Headquarters, Offutt Air Force Base. I vividly remember taking a book under my desk with me during a drill and the lecture I later received from my teacher about the importance of taking the drills more seriously. She sternly told me that our actions, if we were faced with a nuclear attack by the Russians, could mean the difference between life and death. I was astonished that an adult could be so completely and totally naïve. I told her, “Don’t worry, we’re at Ground Zero, we won’t feel a thing”. I have never forgotten the look in her eyes as she processed my statement and realized that because of our proximity to Offutt we were very likely to be incinerated immediately should nuclear war happen.
Ground Zero is defined by the United States Department of Defense and NATO as; The point on the surface of the Earth at, or vertically below or above, the center of an actual nuclear detonation.
Today the site of the World Trade Center in New York City which was destroyed by terrorists on September 11th, 2001 has come to be referred to as Ground Zero. I have also seen the term used to describe the devastating effect a spate of sexual abuse revelations has had on the Roman Catholic Church. The term Ground Zero illustrates the horrendous effects both have had on the lives of not only direct victims but also those connected to them.
The original Ground Zero, Hiroshima, Japan must have just been coming awake at 8:15 in the morning on August 6th, 1945 when an atomic bomb called Little Boy was dropped from an American B29 bomber named Enola Gay. The 15-kiloton nuclear device detonated about 2000 feet over the city. Temperatures in the millions of degrees were generated immediately and the explosion sent a fireball out in all directions. Temperatures on the ground reached 7,000 degrees Fahrenheit instantly igniting anything combustible and melting tile and glass. Winds up to 620 miles per hour were unleashed destroying most of the buildings within a mile and half radius.
The affects of Little Boy, like those of the 9-11 attacks and widespread sexual abuse of children by Roman Catholic priests, makes Ground Zero an apt definition for both events. Those who were not instantly incinerated in Hiroshima that day were badly burned and exposed to very high levels of radiation. Most died within a few months and the estimate of deaths by the end of that year is 140,000. Deaths of victims from radiation poisoning brought the total estimated death toll to 200,000. Three days later a second atomic bomb was dropped on Nagasaki, killing an additional 70,000 and bringing the total deaths from both bombs to 270,000, mostly civilians.
Ground Zero for a child victim of sexual abuse plays a major role in the adult they become. Personal safety and trust are immediately burned to ash. My memories of the childhood molestations are fragmented and incomplete. However the memory of lying in the darkness after the first incident and feeling a great emptiness stands out starkly in my mind. It was as if the darkness was all there was, inside me and out. It was preferable to remain within the safety of that darkness, a place I could hide myself, a safe place. Was this my rite of passage into the adult world? Was that emptiness and darkness the loss of my innocence? I believe so, but this rite of passage unlike others came with fear, shame and secrecy rather than pride, a sense of accomplishment and positive guidance by an elder. The mind of a sexually abused child finds a way to deal with the betrayal and inability to comprehend the situation by dissociating, from the trauma. Sadly as the child reaches adulthood this dissociation leaves the wounded child self behind, alone in a world filled with fear, rage and grief……….
Keo R. Gathman
Lets begin at the beginning
A shadow in my mirror
An image I cannot quite see,
Is this imagination
Or yet another part of me?
I look within and I begin
To truly understand,
Both gains and losses
Have been by my own hand.
Yet still I do not knowThis image that I see.
A woman child lost and alone
Who's gazing back at me,
And in her eyes,
Those silent cries
As she rails at her fate.
She has no voice to speak of hungers
That nothing seems to sate.
She cannot leave her lonely glass,
Instead must stand inside
And watch the world pass.
If I should break the icy pane,
Shall my efforts her freedom gain?
Or will she be forever lost to me
In my attempt to set her free?
Keo R. Gathman
An image I cannot quite see,
Is this imagination
Or yet another part of me?
I look within and I begin
To truly understand,
Both gains and losses
Have been by my own hand.
Yet still I do not knowThis image that I see.
A woman child lost and alone
Who's gazing back at me,
And in her eyes,
Those silent cries
As she rails at her fate.
She has no voice to speak of hungers
That nothing seems to sate.
She cannot leave her lonely glass,
Instead must stand inside
And watch the world pass.
If I should break the icy pane,
Shall my efforts her freedom gain?
Or will she be forever lost to me
In my attempt to set her free?
Keo R. Gathman
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