Tuesday, October 06, 2015


Image source: NASA.gov


“Yesterday is but today’s memory, and tomorrow is today’s dream.” - Kahlil Gibran

On the hush of one indigo twilight, some thirty-six years ago, after perhaps one drink too far, one ill-advised dime bag, or maybe one beating too many, Mom got fed-up and stabbed Dad in his back, right in front of me. I’m not leaning on colorful metaphor; that literally happened. Look for poetry here and you'll find nothing but the taste of copper and the sound of a small child weeping. I suppose we all have defining moments. At age six, this moment ushered in the era of my new normal, an unending twilight.

Dad survived, though the nuclear family changed molecularly, and I fundamentally. Separation lowered us from lower-middle to poverty. Though I didn’t blame myself, my already introverted nature imploded. I began to resign myself to losing, shrugging through overcast existence, impervious to sunlight caressing my face. Normal became my bedrocked-faith eroding, sliding seaward. Normal was coming to terms with the fact that losing is inevitable. In an infinite amount of trajectories, my role in this reality was to fall.

The twilight of normal never fully abates, churning indigo waves, whispering that I'm of the wretched; of abhorrent stock who deserves to fall and slide into the unmarked crevice of nothing. It often compels me to retreat to my bed, shrinking beneath the covers, staring into nothing, envious of its definition. For all my education and life-experiences, it is astounding how often I find myself reduced to that helpless child, weeping in indigo twilight, where I can’t be seen.

Earth turns toward shadows
Veiling light, muting whispers
Hugging its secrets

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Haibun Monday 2.

If you frequent this blog, you probably noticed I haven’t been around for a while. I’d like to say that I’m back, but I’ve been gripped by depression and well, I guess that’s that. I’ll try to write more, but no promises.

This Kahlil Gibran prompt seemed pretty cool though. I greatly enjoyed reading his uplifting book The Prophet, and so I guess I felt compelled to poke around my head and examine parts of me that I don’t always like to see the light of day.

Apparently, I’ve been struggling with depression since I was six years old. Huh. All this time I thought I was just born a grumpy old man. Who knew?

(Sorry for being a buzzkill.)


  1. This is an amazing piece of writing Barry, tears came to my eyes when I saw the little child seeing his Mother stab his father.. What a sad defining moment, and how easy it had to be to fall back into that trauma.. Some brilliant phrasing (which I think is poetry, thought the incidents were not).. so glad to have you back into the writing circles again.. hope you can stay.

  2. This is a gripping personal share Barry ~ I think deep inside us there are childhood memories that will always stay with us, bringing us on brink of sadness and despair ~ I love the indigo twilight with all its secrets ~

    I am happy to read you again Barry ~ Thanks for participating in our Haibun Monday ~

  3. Love is a flower
    grown from
    is always
    Life or death
    in flesh
    or spirit..
    Garden children
    WeLL wITh
    is the way
    of the world
    and no it is not


  4. A moving story, which you have turned into beautiful writing.

  5. This was heartbreaking, and a compelling read. My mom experience similar things in her childhood... How can such things not leave their mark? But I like the thread of courage in this, the attempt to move forward. The haiku really brought it all home.