Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Love, Physical Abuse, Tara Lynn, Verbal Abuse

“Jame Loves Rachel to Death”

Tara Lyn had an expression, a turn of phrase.  She would speak of “loving someone to death”.  It was almost her only way of saying, “love someone well and truly”.

“Jamie loves Rachel to death.”

“Chris loves me to death.”

I do not recall ever much caring for that way of putting things, but as her initially charming new boyfriend began to abuse her, and as his abuse of her progressed from verbal and emotional abuse into beatings, her casual use of the words became terrifying.

In the end, to hear her words was like being throat-punched while knowing yet another blow was coming in a moment.

About This Blog, Tara Lynn

Why I Posted “A Death in the Spring” (Not What You Expect)

A Death in the Spring is in several ways a strange — almost weird — poem.  For one thing, I expect it to have fewer more than around six readers, if it draws even that many.

But I did not post it to be read by the many.

I posted it because it felt like it was the right thing to do.

Continue reading “Why I Posted “A Death in the Spring” (Not What You Expect)”

Abuse, Agape, Alienation, Attached Love, Authenticity, Bad Ideas, Being True To Yourself, Cultural Traits, Culture, Death, Emotional Dependency, Ethics, Human Nature, Ideas, Infatuation, Judgementalism, Life, Living, Love, Lovers, Marysa, Morality, Morals, New Love, Oppression, Passion, People, Poetry, Possessiveness, Relationships, Romantic Love, Society, Spiritual Alienation, Spirituality, Tara Lynn, Terese, Teresums, The Spanish Woman, Truth, Unconditional Love, Wisdom

A Death in the Spring

This poem is dedicated to Majel Campbell, an admired and esteemed friend, and to Terese Bozdas and Marysa Storm, who were its graceful muses. The poem can be thought of as a true, novella-length story of a young woman’s betrayal and murder by a false man who she believed loved her. I was myself a nearby witness to the events recounted in the poem, but powerless to alter or prevent the triumph of evil.

The two core themes of the poem are the nature of love and the nature of evil.

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“An amazing journey of love, evil, truth and wisdom.” — Teresums

“I’m blown away!! Such an epic, beautiful poem, yet so sad! Truly among your best!”  — Scott

Continue reading “A Death in the Spring”

About This Blog, Tara Lynn

Some Excerpts from a Forthcoming Novella-Length Poem

Dear Reader,

Twenty-six years ago, I was a nearby witness to an authentic Greek tragedy.  A tragedy that I believe is justifiably described as a “murder”.

If it was not some kind or species of murder, then there is no English word I know of to describe the outrageous cruelty and brutality of what a false lover did to a beautiful young woman who worked with me at the time as my data-entry clerk.

Today, the word “trauma” has become a popular word  to describe the effects such things can have on people.  I never sought nor received professional help for the personal fallout from witnessing her betrayal and murder.

I wish I had.  A professional might have saved me years of numbness.

I am calling the novella length poem, “A Death in the Spring”, because the fast moving events the poem is based ontook place during the six-month period between Christmas 1992 and June, 1993.

I regard the novella as perhaps the best effort I have ever made to see below the surface of a series of events and see into their truer nature.

I published an earlier, premature version of the poem about a week ago.  It wasn’t ready then.  It was “scarce half made up”.  I have since worked hard re-writing it.  It’s very different now.

The poem will be posted sometime within the next few days on this blog.  Here are some excerpts from it.

An alchemist. She was an alchemist, Traveler.
Beneath the warmth of her sun
Beneath the lightness of her breeze,
Beneath her cloudless blue eyes,
Beneath her bold and fearless Spring,
Beneath it all she was an alchemist.
In her depths, in her nature, she was an alchemist.

An alchemist I told my true name.
Unbidden by her, I surrendered
My true name.

I fated myself, Traveler, when I told her my true name.
I fated myself.

 

 

Chris was himself a ball thrown hard and fast into a room.
Child-raped by his step-father,
Subjected growing up to innumerable other evils,
Chris was understandably warped and weft by his life.
His heart and mind both were twisted yarn
Dyed black with self-centering and selfish pain.
Screaming in self-centering and selfish pain.

 

She phoned me at home on Christmas Eve.
Her boyfriend had been missing for some days.
She had friends. Some close, some further away.
But she turned to me.
She turned to me in trust,
The sole reliable elder in her world.
She turned to me
As people have always at times turned to elders.

That’s how it began.
In hindsight, her evening had come.

Love sometimes is
Too softly spoken
To be heard
Above the wind

Hearts sometimes are
Too softly broken
To be heard
Tara Lynn

Love sometimes is
Like a dance
We don’t think
We’re in

Hearts sometimes
Dance apart
Tara Lynn.

 

Abuse, Butch, Ethics, Family, Friends, Goals, Happiness, Human Nature, Judgementalism, Life, Living, Love, Lovers, Mature Love, Meaning, Morality, Morals, Parental Love, People, Purpose, Quality of Life, Rae, Relationships, Romantic Love, Sex, Sexuality, Shannon, Society, Tara Lynn, Tomoko, Values

Butch and Rae: An Unlikely Love Story

(About a 16 minute read)

Butch was such a nondescript man that he surely did not need a crowd to be overlooked by most anyone of us.  He was of average build, and just under average in height.  There was nothing either ugly or handsome about his face.   Blue eyes, a bit narrow.  Sandy hair.  Pale complexion.  Not only was he easily overlooked, he was even more easily underestimated.

Had you seen him during the time we knew each other, you most likely would have thought, “janitor”.  Arms too thin for construction, looks too unpolished to be a professional or even a store clerk.   And you would have been right.  At that time in his life, Butch was a janitor.

He was also one of those curious sort of people you sometimes come across in small towns and rural areas.  An honest genius with no more than a high school education, and no ambitions for himself.

Continue reading “Butch and Rae: An Unlikely Love Story”

Alienation, Alienation From Self, Human Nature, Life, Love, People, Poetry, Quality of Life, Self, Spirituality, Tara Lynn, Vacilando

In the Stillness of the Mountains

Please Note: A couple weeks ago, Gina presented our WordPress community with a challenge: Compose a poem answering the question, “Who Am I?”. That I did.

Please remember to check out the works of the other poets here.

(About a 5 minute read)

I would sit at a sidewalk table each evening
To watch the descending sun become the night.
In those days, I would sit alone into the night.

But once a stranger shot from around the corner,
Almost bolting and desperate. It seemed desperate.

It’s head swung side to side,
Searching for something it didn’t find.
It held its tail almost between its legs,
And made a curious sound,
Half muffled whimpering, half something wild.

Its alienation was tangible, I felt it viscerally.

Two humans followed almost at a trot.
“That’s no dog”, I said to them.

“No, it’s a wolf.”

A wolf in the city. Fed, groomed,
Taken good care of, but homeless in the city,
It’s spirit attuned to a wilderness
It cannot find.

Years before, I had loved my secretary, Tara.
Her laughter rising and falling with mine
As the hours of work flew by.
Then she had spun — within 24 weeks she had spun —
Like a child’s top wobbling down to collapse
Into the arms of a man who belittled her and beat her.

And within those same 24 weeks, I had lost it all.
Nearly everything “my”, nearly everything “mine”.
All of it but a car, a few thousand dollars,
And some clothes.

When do you suppose, in the process of losing things,
Do you lose yourself?

The wife was almost the first to go. The home was next.
With it my pets, my books, my journals, my bed.
I became homeless, working by day, wandering at night
Until I would find some spot to park and to sleep.

When do you suppose, in the process of losing things,
Do you lose yourself?

Scott stumbled out one night, that he came to work
Because it was there he felt loved. Lisa had told me
Much the same thing earlier that Spring.

But the woman I loved whose laughter I thought
Was like a gentle breeze across blue flowers,
And whose smile seemed to be a warm sun in disguise,
Was turning inside herself in confusion and in pain.
Churning in confusion and pain.

When do you suppose, in the process of losing things,
Do you lose yourself?

Scott stayed until the end, but Lisa and the others
Had me on a pedestal. When I tumbled, they left
One by one, in disillusionment and disgust.

“Competent. Capable. Successful. Respectable.” left too.
Soon enough followed by, “Decent. Kind. And Good.”

When do you suppose, in the process of losing things,
Do you lose yourself?

In the evenings, I would sit beside the lake
Feeling the breeze lift across my arm like kisses
From someone who came close enough to care.

By that lake,
My troubled mind began to calm, even ran cold.
I left self-pity somewhere in the past,
And then I left the past
Where it could no longer be found —
Memories of the year before
Seemed like some other person’s life.
“Eighteen months”, I thought, “And I’ll be dead.”
It was a conclusion reached as dispassionately
As two and two is four.

When do you suppose, in the process of losing things,
Do you lose yourself?

Not wanting my family to witness the dying
I set out with all that was left,
And wandered my way to Colorado in the Fall.

Several years went by, years of the wolf.
Years of estrangement and alienation,
Until I was gradually reborn.

When do you suppose, in the process of gaining things,
Do you regain yourself?

I have learned that in life the most important doors
Are the doors you do not suspect are there,
The doors you might pass through not knowing
You’ve turned the key in their locks.

My brothers are returned to me now,
More brothers now than ever before.
My friends are truer now,
More truer friends than ever before.

Yes, I still can run my fingers
Along the lumpy scars that have healed
Without having been sewn up.
I still can feel the atrocity
Of Tara’s fate, and I even miss my books.

But my laughter echoes through-out me now,
My loves are many and passionate.
I can hold a flower between my teeth
Without being wounded by its thorns.
I feel the endless wilderness of my spirit,
And the coiled precision of my mind.
I revel in the beauty of men and women,
And in the stillness of the mountains
I am reborn.
In the stillness of the mountains
I am reborn.

Adolescent Sexuality, Alienation, Attached Love, Attachment, Emotional Dependency, Erotic Love, Impermance, Infatuation, Life, Love, Lovers, Marriage, Mature Love, New Love, Passion, Quality of Life, Relationships, Self, Self-Knowledge, Tara Lynn

How Love Ends

(About a 5 minute read)

Some people have time machines.  They take you back a few decades, maybe more than a few.  This morning was hardly past first light before a man I know had posted on a forum a long-winded sermon, self-righteously confident that women (“especially in California”) have turned love into “a temporal thing”.

His ex “moved on too fast”, you see, and he resents that about a woman he no longer wants anything to do with — beyond still control her every move, apparently — should now prove to him that all her words of love were false when she once was in love with him.

Continue reading “How Love Ends”