Drowned in a moonlit canvas,
Our shadows played upon the water.
A reflection,
Unfeeling,
Of what I've now become.
We held hands with paper dolls and toys soldiers.
Dressed our youth with balloons-
Party hats.
Living just beyond innocence
Reaching for Godliness.
I blink.
Are you there?
Your mouth holds my conviction,
But your venom draws me deeper.
Please touch me into feeling something.
Found this in a journal I had written from college circa 1996 and decided to add:
Written by Tracy Medberry Copyright 2012
Friday, December 21, 2012
Friday, December 7, 2012
Bread
Wrapped in sheets threaded with a strange loneliness,
I realize I cannot give anymore.
No more hide and seek.
I no longer know the rules in this rabbit hole-
A place where I’m always “It”.
A place where I’m always “It”.
I crawl, face to the ground, to find you, but you are nowhere.
In the looking glass, I see a worn and stale reflection.
It shatters into several pieces against the final blow of guilt,
I make it suffer.
In games past, you've shielded yourself against my honesty
And strike a jab when I’m not looking.
And strike a jab when I’m not looking.
Instead of chasing you into emptiness,
I gather the sharp pieces which would once protect me and walk into undiscovered territory,
Unaware of what I'm in search of.
I find a man dressed in robes of white who has turned to stone.
Who is he? Where did he go?
I shed a tear for his loss and mine.
I gather the sharp pieces which would once protect me and walk into undiscovered territory,
Unaware of what I'm in search of.
I find a man dressed in robes of white who has turned to stone.
Who is he? Where did he go?
I shed a tear for his loss and mine.
I’m forced to grieve now, no longer able to numb my pain
Beneath shards of glass and dark secrets.
I stand at this altar and lay them at His feet,
Hoping this cold statue will reemerge a man in flesh,
Able to exchange my weapons for a piece of bread.
Able to exchange my weapons for a piece of bread.
Perhaps if I sleep here all night, a miracle will come by morning.
Monday, November 26, 2012
The Run
My feet hit the gravel filled pavement, kicking small pebbles up behind me. The thought of a stone- filled truck driving on the freeway comes to mind, the ones that are uncovered slinging debris at your windshield as you try hopelessly to dodge the next oncoming crack. I quickly glance over my shoulder hoping no one is behind me, especially someone wearing glasses. My legs are swift and strong, and I run for miles without stopping to catch my breath. And then it comes over me...what I've been waiting for - the sensation of pure ecstasy. I'm not sure if everyone who runs avidly gets that rush once they reach a certain distance. But for me, it is like a bolus of some opiod they might use in a hospital ER. It had reached it's pique in my system, and my anger, frustration, and worries melted away like an inexpensive wax votive. I feel a smile creep over my face as the surge of a second wind infuses me. My body was made for this. In some moments, in my more graceful hours while gliding across smoother terrain, I would sometimes catch a rush of wind that left me with the sensation that I was flying. Those small moments were ones of perfection. The next moment was not one of those. I saw it coming ahead, but not quickly enough to change my course - a pothole about two feet in diameter (if you could call it that, looking at its amorphous shape). I quickly veered to the left, but my right foot lagged behind, catching its sharp corner, leaving me defenseless. My brain slowed, as if retaining each millisecond of the next few moments the path this pothole had predetermined for me.
It was then I realized I was falling.
And with a mighty thunk, my body hit the ground. I took a moment to catch my breath. My sheets managed to catch the brunt of the force, though they twisted in a way that awkwardly fused my thigh to my abdomen.
Another dream, I swallowed hard to catch my breath, as if I actually had been running. I lay there a few moments wanting nothing more than to escape back to that place of ecstasy. I held hard to the feeling of my feet hitting the pavement, the way the cool wind swept across my plum face, the feeling of freedom and absolute surrender.
My eyes were burning now, tears flowing, the realization stinging me; I would never return to that place. I was in a different place of surrender, now. I traced the knotted sheets down my thigh, and clenched my jaw when my fingers ended their journey, right above where my knee once lay. No matter how many times I traced and retraced, no matter how many dreams, my leg was never coming back. I had to surrender to that fact.
AHH! the agony was like a blade ripping through my skin. I grabbed at my right leg, for the pain to stop, only to discover . . . air.
There is an irony in the phrase phantom pain. I honestly never gave two thoughts about my legs before the accident, self-righteously assuming they would always be there -- until one wasn't . After that, the phantom was a daily reminder of what I now couldn't do so easily, what I had once taken for granted, and what I would give for a sense of normalcy.
I paused a moment, before untangling the sheets that connected me to that other world. Before, calling my mother for help back into my bed. Before I had to succumb to a long arduous morning routine, that had replaced the eager simplicity of jumping out of bed, I wanted to remember the simplicity of running.
I held onto that sheet like a lifeline for what seemed like hours. I replayed every little league game, every school dance -- roller skating, jumping on trampolines, swimming at the local pool . . . guys looking at me like I was an object of affection and beauty. . . not someone who needed pitying. I went through every memory, every stupid stunt that could have gotten me killed . . . my accident.
I don't remember much about that night:
I was about six weeks in to my freshman year of a Division III school on a merit scholarship for track and field. I was the first leg runner (I realize the irony, now) in the 4x400. We placed first that night, and decided to have a bit of a rager. It was my first college party, so, believe me, I took full advantage of the opportunity.
Then things started getting a bit fuzzy. The cops got called, and everyone started scattering like cockroaches in the light. Me and another guy escaped to the roof. I remember a cop's voice, thundering inside the bedroom. The only way out was down. So, we both agreed to jump on three. I can still hear his voice inside my head.
One! I looked over the edge. Two! "Here, I'll hold your hand!" Three! . . .
They kept repeating how lucky I was to be alive.
I kept asking about the other guy, but nobody ever answered . . .
I had conveniently forgotten about him.
It's funny how people choose to remember the past and how that, in turn, effects their view of the present.
At that moment, I took my 4 pound, 400 thread count umbilical chord, and let go. I untwisted the knots that gagged my body, and gawkily forced all my weight up onto my left leg. Then, I fumbled through the darkness, feeling thankful for once when my hands reached the right leg's cold, hard replacement.
I then propped myself back onto my bed, ineptly preparing my right leg for the first time I would handle this morning's routine.
My mother popped her head in and turned on the light, shocked at what she saw.
I'll do that. she interrupted.
I've got it! I recanted, pushing her away.
That's my job. What are you doing? Her eyes and mouth contorted.
I stopped for a moment, and looked her square in the eyes.
I'm going for a run.
It was then I realized I was falling.
And with a mighty thunk, my body hit the ground. I took a moment to catch my breath. My sheets managed to catch the brunt of the force, though they twisted in a way that awkwardly fused my thigh to my abdomen.
Another dream, I swallowed hard to catch my breath, as if I actually had been running. I lay there a few moments wanting nothing more than to escape back to that place of ecstasy. I held hard to the feeling of my feet hitting the pavement, the way the cool wind swept across my plum face, the feeling of freedom and absolute surrender.
My eyes were burning now, tears flowing, the realization stinging me; I would never return to that place. I was in a different place of surrender, now. I traced the knotted sheets down my thigh, and clenched my jaw when my fingers ended their journey, right above where my knee once lay. No matter how many times I traced and retraced, no matter how many dreams, my leg was never coming back. I had to surrender to that fact.
AHH! the agony was like a blade ripping through my skin. I grabbed at my right leg, for the pain to stop, only to discover . . . air.
There is an irony in the phrase phantom pain. I honestly never gave two thoughts about my legs before the accident, self-righteously assuming they would always be there -- until one wasn't . After that, the phantom was a daily reminder of what I now couldn't do so easily, what I had once taken for granted, and what I would give for a sense of normalcy.
I paused a moment, before untangling the sheets that connected me to that other world. Before, calling my mother for help back into my bed. Before I had to succumb to a long arduous morning routine, that had replaced the eager simplicity of jumping out of bed, I wanted to remember the simplicity of running.
I held onto that sheet like a lifeline for what seemed like hours. I replayed every little league game, every school dance -- roller skating, jumping on trampolines, swimming at the local pool . . . guys looking at me like I was an object of affection and beauty. . . not someone who needed pitying. I went through every memory, every stupid stunt that could have gotten me killed . . . my accident.
I don't remember much about that night:
I was about six weeks in to my freshman year of a Division III school on a merit scholarship for track and field. I was the first leg runner (I realize the irony, now) in the 4x400. We placed first that night, and decided to have a bit of a rager. It was my first college party, so, believe me, I took full advantage of the opportunity.
Then things started getting a bit fuzzy. The cops got called, and everyone started scattering like cockroaches in the light. Me and another guy escaped to the roof. I remember a cop's voice, thundering inside the bedroom. The only way out was down. So, we both agreed to jump on three. I can still hear his voice inside my head.
One! I looked over the edge. Two! "Here, I'll hold your hand!" Three! . . .
They kept repeating how lucky I was to be alive.
I kept asking about the other guy, but nobody ever answered . . .
I had conveniently forgotten about him.
It's funny how people choose to remember the past and how that, in turn, effects their view of the present.
At that moment, I took my 4 pound, 400 thread count umbilical chord, and let go. I untwisted the knots that gagged my body, and gawkily forced all my weight up onto my left leg. Then, I fumbled through the darkness, feeling thankful for once when my hands reached the right leg's cold, hard replacement.
I then propped myself back onto my bed, ineptly preparing my right leg for the first time I would handle this morning's routine.
My mother popped her head in and turned on the light, shocked at what she saw.
I'll do that. she interrupted.
I've got it! I recanted, pushing her away.
That's my job. What are you doing? Her eyes and mouth contorted.
I stopped for a moment, and looked her square in the eyes.
I'm going for a run.
2:52
Flashbacks haunted
Memory daunted
The iron lung won't let me move.
Pressure's falling
Lungs in need of outside rescue
Air flows
An artificial breath inflates me.
Short lived
Breath expelled
In need of another quick jolt
Allowing the process to continue
Knowing I can breathe . . .
On my own
If only I make the choice
To open the chamber.
Memory daunted
The iron lung won't let me move.
Pressure's falling
Lungs in need of outside rescue
Air flows
An artificial breath inflates me.
Short lived
Breath expelled
In need of another quick jolt
Allowing the process to continue
Knowing I can breathe . . .
On my own
If only I make the choice
To open the chamber.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Morning Dance
Morning
It's time for our secret early hour ritual
Donned in bathrobes and the scent of fabric softener
I hear the stiff crinkle of the pages of our worn book
As I worm my way into your lap.
Your circus-like juggling act of coffee, books, and cigarettes
Always eluded me...my tiny hands dropping objects to large to fit their grasp.
But your hand manages to make its way to mine.
Mine... half its size, is enveloped by your glove.
I find it odd how much security and comfort can be found
In the way your hand wraps around mine.
I inhale the bitter but fresh aroma wafting from the coffee mug in your left hand
As your right hand softly dances to find the dog eared page
So customary to our morning retreat
You take a sip of coffee and exhale
My head nestles into your chest and I can hear your heartbeat
I take a moment to relish the aroma of mountain and pine, sighing from your skin,
Urging me to nuzzle closer.
Zara the Bather, you announce in a tone that would make Hugo proud.
As you begin my ear searches for that perfect spot
Filled with rich baritone vibrato and the steady drumbeat of your voice.
Once found, I melt into you and let the rhythm, the musicality, our composition overtake me.
And I discover, I am home.
It's time for our secret early hour ritual
Donned in bathrobes and the scent of fabric softener
I hear the stiff crinkle of the pages of our worn book
As I worm my way into your lap.
Your circus-like juggling act of coffee, books, and cigarettes
Always eluded me...my tiny hands dropping objects to large to fit their grasp.
But your hand manages to make its way to mine.
Mine... half its size, is enveloped by your glove.
I find it odd how much security and comfort can be found
In the way your hand wraps around mine.
I inhale the bitter but fresh aroma wafting from the coffee mug in your left hand
As your right hand softly dances to find the dog eared page
So customary to our morning retreat
You take a sip of coffee and exhale
My head nestles into your chest and I can hear your heartbeat
I take a moment to relish the aroma of mountain and pine, sighing from your skin,
Urging me to nuzzle closer.
Zara the Bather, you announce in a tone that would make Hugo proud.
As you begin my ear searches for that perfect spot
Filled with rich baritone vibrato and the steady drumbeat of your voice.
Once found, I melt into you and let the rhythm, the musicality, our composition overtake me.
And I discover, I am home.
Monday, August 27, 2012
The Mariner
To dive beneath your skin
Where the scent of sunrays and mountain peaks beckon me.
Oh sirens!
Your melody, so sweet
Hangs like a vice around my heart.
I’ve become accustomed to the ache.
In moments it loosens,
And I am aware of its yield
Stay! I beg for more of the rhythmic pounding that follows its cadence.
It pulls me to the undertow
Where air evades me-
Far beneath the waves that have cracked the shallow surface.
Deep...
I find myself crashing to the ocean floor, my brain dizzied by orchestration.
In moments of clarity there is solace in this place of vulnerability.
The vastness of warmth, here, in this space only we two, share.
Caught off guard by a gaze inviting me closer into the depth of you,
I'm leery of timeless tales, of the melodies relayed by those on shore
Those with deep furrows in faces scoured clean and fragile by years of salt water embedded in their skin.
You wrap your strong arms around me, inviting me further...inviting release.
Breathless, I succumb. I have nothing left to offer.
Nothing to give. My body grows limp.
Like a miracle, you grab my face and place your lips to mine. Life pours into me.
An aria. Music I've have never encountered floods my ears. Sharp. Crisp. Bellowing. Pure. It's almost too much to contain, and I break away for a moment of respite.
But, I quickly realize it is something my soul is in need of in this vast unknown territory.
In the darkness, I am guided toward the familiar tune.
Until our lips meet again.
I have but one request.
Deep...
I find myself crashing to the ocean floor, my brain dizzied by orchestration.
In moments of clarity there is solace in this place of vulnerability.
The vastness of warmth, here, in this space only we two, share.
Caught off guard by a gaze inviting me closer into the depth of you,
I'm leery of timeless tales, of the melodies relayed by those on shore
Those with deep furrows in faces scoured clean and fragile by years of salt water embedded in their skin.
You wrap your strong arms around me, inviting me further...inviting release.
Breathless, I succumb. I have nothing left to offer.
Nothing to give. My body grows limp.
Like a miracle, you grab my face and place your lips to mine. Life pours into me.
An aria. Music I've have never encountered floods my ears. Sharp. Crisp. Bellowing. Pure. It's almost too much to contain, and I break away for a moment of respite.
But, I quickly realize it is something my soul is in need of in this vast unknown territory.
In the darkness, I am guided toward the familiar tune.
Until our lips meet again.
I have but one request.
If I drown entangled in this one breath between us…
Please, heavenly creature…
Sing me home
Poem by Tracy Medberry 2012; Video: Never Let Me Go by Florence and the Machine, Universal Island Records 2012
Poem by Tracy Medberry 2012; Video: Never Let Me Go by Florence and the Machine, Universal Island Records 2012
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Is Your Idea Worth a Million Dollars? Try Patent or Not!
Have you seen Shark Tank? Think you may have that million dollar idea that will take the world by storm?
I know I'm always coming up with these ideas and wondering if a. someone else has already "stolen my idea" or b. if what I think may be a ground breaking idea would actually be marketable.
Well, I found a really cool looking and reputable web-based service for vetting ideas to find out if my own ideas are worth moving forward to get a patent or if once again, someone else has already snatched up something I thought of.
The Best Part...
They have super affordable packages! And they, unlike this somewhat goofy post, come across as a straight forward and honest site that is gimmick free. The site has a very professional appearance that takes itself seriously. It doesn't seem to be one of those places that will take your money and run, but simply will tell you if your own creative "baby" is patentable or if it's not patentable, allowing you to move on to your next big idea.
So, join me in a creative revolution, and together we'll see if we may have what it takes to be one of the world's next Steve Jobs... or at least the founder of the pet rock...whoever that person was.
Who knows, our ideas might be turn out to be better than a Snuggie wrapped in Jeggings.
Find out more at:
http://patentornot.com/
I know I'm always coming up with these ideas and wondering if a. someone else has already "stolen my idea" or b. if what I think may be a ground breaking idea would actually be marketable.
Well, I found a really cool looking and reputable web-based service for vetting ideas to find out if my own ideas are worth moving forward to get a patent or if once again, someone else has already snatched up something I thought of.
The Best Part...
They have super affordable packages! And they, unlike this somewhat goofy post, come across as a straight forward and honest site that is gimmick free. The site has a very professional appearance that takes itself seriously. It doesn't seem to be one of those places that will take your money and run, but simply will tell you if your own creative "baby" is patentable or if it's not patentable, allowing you to move on to your next big idea.
So, join me in a creative revolution, and together we'll see if we may have what it takes to be one of the world's next Steve Jobs... or at least the founder of the pet rock...whoever that person was.
Who knows, our ideas might be turn out to be better than a Snuggie wrapped in Jeggings.
Find out more at:
http://patentornot.com/
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