life,
brutal your crush
so from you
I fade
with breath of
anguish
I disobey
herein lies
my final
goodbye
gone soon dead-ends
that makeup day
no more your days
that crush away
illusions of hope
salvation awaits
in sips of sleep
to refuge of gray
slowly I slip
far
from you
the whole of me
peacefully
eternally
falls
away
unlike you
of myself
I will not crush
with leniency
I simply
cease
as from you
blithely
I fade
-Kalynn Campbell
THE NAKED LADY TREE
A short story I wrote a few years ago during my divorce - I just now got around to editing it.
“Time has a way of stealing the past like a rainforest taking back a village”
My wife and I took possession of the new house on a sunny summer's day. The backyard a typical cookie cutter mold of urban living. A six foot high wooden fence the only thing that separated a deluge of fast food wrappers and sun bleached beer cans from the 15' x 30' piece of earth which now served as our sanctuary from the hustle and bustle of the city. In the center of this man made oasis grew a ficus tree. It was a striking bit of flora, the lineage pure ficus.
The ficus tree.
A popular choice for city dwellers as it grows quickly and can cover a yard with coveted shade in no time. But the tree is considered a scourge by city planners because of it's aggressive roots. The roots of a ficus tree can bore through sewer pipe like a spoon through pudding, the tenacious roots often push slabs of sidewalk up from the ground a foot or two, detrimentally tripping unmindful pedestrians. Due to costly lawsuits and broken water pipes, the mischievous ficus tree maintains a high ranking on the list of ‘urban menaces.’
Menace aside, the quick growth of tree cover made the ficus tree a happy arboretum staple in my new neighborhood. Even with the occasional ‘warning’ letter from the city asking people to curb the practice of planting ficus trees, there was at least one ficus tree in every backyard. The ficus tree in our yard was not like all the others, ours was special. What set our ficus tree apart from the hundreds of others in the hundreds of other backyards was the trunk. From the moment you stepped out the back door you noticed it. The trunk of our tree displayed an astonishing sexy manifestation of human female torso anatomy. Not a "squint your eyes and imagine" trunk, but a "someone had to have sculpted that, it's so erotically realistic" trunk. An R-rated "cover the kid's eyes" female anatomy kind of trunk. Every subtle crease, every smooth contour, every titillating measurement was accurate. She was stunning in her perfection of female lusciousness and she proudly showboated mother nature’s naughty ‘exhibitionist' side. From the day we moved in the tree was simply called ‘the naked lady tree,’ a moniker she wore like a Frederick's of Hollywood corset.
From Birthdays to Holidays to barbeques, the years unwound, each one punctuated by a series of backyard get-togethers. At every event friends would marvel at the naked lady tree. All were amazed, most took pictures or videos, and one, on a Cinco De Mayo tequila bender, posed with her in such a lewd manner as to end up the star of an embarrassing viral video.
The years continued to unwind until one day my wife left me. My marriage ended not with a bang, but with a whimper. A simple "I want a divorce,” followed by the door closing. It cut my heart in two but I had no choice, it was her divorce and I was merely along for the beating. Within three days of her walking out I became so uncomfortable in the large house alone that I started eating meals in the back yard. I'd throw whatever I could find onto a paper plate then sit on the back porch steps and force myself to accept nourishment. I remember the first time I looked up at the naked lady tree after many months of neglecting the backyard. The naked lady tree was anchored to the center of the yard by thick stark-white roots, her dancing branches full of shiny green pearl-like leaves. But her beautiful sensual trunk had changed, no longer did she flaunt the sexy human-like torso she once had. Her humanesque features were still noticeable but they no longer held a shocking realism. She was noticeably older, her voluptuous 'legs' had now thickened to old lady status. The naked lady tree was in decline, much as my marriage.
A strange kinship developed between the naked lady tree and myself over the next few months. She became my rock, a place I would go to express the sorrow of a broken marriage in solitude. The naked lady tree the only one I was confiding in that didn’t respond with a pitiful pat on the back or a halfhearted “chin up” pep talk. Sitting at her roots also gave me the feeling I had a comrade in pain. The tree was losing her stunning human-like figure, a figure that made her a star among ficus trees. Once she was so stunning people actually garnished cameras when they saw her. That was over now. In a strange way it seemed as if the tree felt sad for me as well. The naked lady tree had been there from day one and was witness to the good of the marriage as Birthdays and Holidays and barbeques rolled in and out of my life. And now, whenever I sat under the shady plume of her branches, leaves would gently drop around me like light rain on a summer’s day. The naked lady tree shed tears for me.
One day the gardener gouged the naked lady tree’s trunk with a 'weed-whacker.’ It was a deep slash and the wound bled white sap for days. Within a week a scar developed, a long human-like welt line defacing her once flawless outer bark.
Now we both carried scars.
Meantime the divorce raged on, nastiness spewed from that side and anxiety poured from this side. A dark cloud seemed to constantly hang over the house and within a few weeks a flock of large rogue crows filled the naked lady tree's branched arms. They cackled and spewed verbal venom as I sat in my usual spot on the back steps and picked at the dregs of a once brimming refrigerator. The crows were like pillaging pirates on a secluded tropical island. They pulled garbage from the street and dropped it on the lawn, they fowled my car and robbed nests of all the local song birds until there was no longer a song in the air. It was another harsh mirror image of the bleak world that was my ongoing divorce.
Soon the divorce war hit a fever pitch and I found myself consumed with survival on the basic of levels. Preoccupied with legal papers and collapsing finances, I stopped eating meals on the back steps, opting to eat on the living room floor while I went through stacks of legal briefs. No longer did I have time for anything other than the fight at hand. Two more months passed when seemingly out of the blue my wife's lawyer called. The war was over. The divorce was finalized. With little more than a “oh, by the way,” I had been ordered to pack and vacate.
Overwhelmed, I opened a beer and walked to the back door, needing to clear my head. Walking through the threshold from what had been a living tomb into the vibrancy of the outside world felt alien. The air was incredibly crisp, the returned sound of song birds a welcomed distraction. I sat in my spot on the steps and glanced up at the naked lady tree. I was at once shocked and saddened. She had changed. As if someone had planted another tree in her spot, her torso had become nothing more than a run-of-the-mill ficus tree's trunk - no semblance to human form remained at all. The tree before me was nothing more than an ordinary everyday ficus tree. Only a faded line across the trunk, a garden tool defacement, gave any indication it was her. The naked lady tree.
I looked down and tears began to flow. Everything I knew was gone. For the first time... I realized I was alone.
-Kalynn Campbell
“Time has a way of stealing the past like a rainforest taking back a village”
My wife and I took possession of the new house on a sunny summer's day. The backyard a typical cookie cutter mold of urban living. A six foot high wooden fence the only thing that separated a deluge of fast food wrappers and sun bleached beer cans from the 15' x 30' piece of earth which now served as our sanctuary from the hustle and bustle of the city. In the center of this man made oasis grew a ficus tree. It was a striking bit of flora, the lineage pure ficus.
The ficus tree.
A popular choice for city dwellers as it grows quickly and can cover a yard with coveted shade in no time. But the tree is considered a scourge by city planners because of it's aggressive roots. The roots of a ficus tree can bore through sewer pipe like a spoon through pudding, the tenacious roots often push slabs of sidewalk up from the ground a foot or two, detrimentally tripping unmindful pedestrians. Due to costly lawsuits and broken water pipes, the mischievous ficus tree maintains a high ranking on the list of ‘urban menaces.’
Menace aside, the quick growth of tree cover made the ficus tree a happy arboretum staple in my new neighborhood. Even with the occasional ‘warning’ letter from the city asking people to curb the practice of planting ficus trees, there was at least one ficus tree in every backyard. The ficus tree in our yard was not like all the others, ours was special. What set our ficus tree apart from the hundreds of others in the hundreds of other backyards was the trunk. From the moment you stepped out the back door you noticed it. The trunk of our tree displayed an astonishing sexy manifestation of human female torso anatomy. Not a "squint your eyes and imagine" trunk, but a "someone had to have sculpted that, it's so erotically realistic" trunk. An R-rated "cover the kid's eyes" female anatomy kind of trunk. Every subtle crease, every smooth contour, every titillating measurement was accurate. She was stunning in her perfection of female lusciousness and she proudly showboated mother nature’s naughty ‘exhibitionist' side. From the day we moved in the tree was simply called ‘the naked lady tree,’ a moniker she wore like a Frederick's of Hollywood corset.
From Birthdays to Holidays to barbeques, the years unwound, each one punctuated by a series of backyard get-togethers. At every event friends would marvel at the naked lady tree. All were amazed, most took pictures or videos, and one, on a Cinco De Mayo tequila bender, posed with her in such a lewd manner as to end up the star of an embarrassing viral video.
The years continued to unwind until one day my wife left me. My marriage ended not with a bang, but with a whimper. A simple "I want a divorce,” followed by the door closing. It cut my heart in two but I had no choice, it was her divorce and I was merely along for the beating. Within three days of her walking out I became so uncomfortable in the large house alone that I started eating meals in the back yard. I'd throw whatever I could find onto a paper plate then sit on the back porch steps and force myself to accept nourishment. I remember the first time I looked up at the naked lady tree after many months of neglecting the backyard. The naked lady tree was anchored to the center of the yard by thick stark-white roots, her dancing branches full of shiny green pearl-like leaves. But her beautiful sensual trunk had changed, no longer did she flaunt the sexy human-like torso she once had. Her humanesque features were still noticeable but they no longer held a shocking realism. She was noticeably older, her voluptuous 'legs' had now thickened to old lady status. The naked lady tree was in decline, much as my marriage.
A strange kinship developed between the naked lady tree and myself over the next few months. She became my rock, a place I would go to express the sorrow of a broken marriage in solitude. The naked lady tree the only one I was confiding in that didn’t respond with a pitiful pat on the back or a halfhearted “chin up” pep talk. Sitting at her roots also gave me the feeling I had a comrade in pain. The tree was losing her stunning human-like figure, a figure that made her a star among ficus trees. Once she was so stunning people actually garnished cameras when they saw her. That was over now. In a strange way it seemed as if the tree felt sad for me as well. The naked lady tree had been there from day one and was witness to the good of the marriage as Birthdays and Holidays and barbeques rolled in and out of my life. And now, whenever I sat under the shady plume of her branches, leaves would gently drop around me like light rain on a summer’s day. The naked lady tree shed tears for me.
One day the gardener gouged the naked lady tree’s trunk with a 'weed-whacker.’ It was a deep slash and the wound bled white sap for days. Within a week a scar developed, a long human-like welt line defacing her once flawless outer bark.
Now we both carried scars.
Meantime the divorce raged on, nastiness spewed from that side and anxiety poured from this side. A dark cloud seemed to constantly hang over the house and within a few weeks a flock of large rogue crows filled the naked lady tree's branched arms. They cackled and spewed verbal venom as I sat in my usual spot on the back steps and picked at the dregs of a once brimming refrigerator. The crows were like pillaging pirates on a secluded tropical island. They pulled garbage from the street and dropped it on the lawn, they fowled my car and robbed nests of all the local song birds until there was no longer a song in the air. It was another harsh mirror image of the bleak world that was my ongoing divorce.
Soon the divorce war hit a fever pitch and I found myself consumed with survival on the basic of levels. Preoccupied with legal papers and collapsing finances, I stopped eating meals on the back steps, opting to eat on the living room floor while I went through stacks of legal briefs. No longer did I have time for anything other than the fight at hand. Two more months passed when seemingly out of the blue my wife's lawyer called. The war was over. The divorce was finalized. With little more than a “oh, by the way,” I had been ordered to pack and vacate.
Overwhelmed, I opened a beer and walked to the back door, needing to clear my head. Walking through the threshold from what had been a living tomb into the vibrancy of the outside world felt alien. The air was incredibly crisp, the returned sound of song birds a welcomed distraction. I sat in my spot on the steps and glanced up at the naked lady tree. I was at once shocked and saddened. She had changed. As if someone had planted another tree in her spot, her torso had become nothing more than a run-of-the-mill ficus tree's trunk - no semblance to human form remained at all. The tree before me was nothing more than an ordinary everyday ficus tree. Only a faded line across the trunk, a garden tool defacement, gave any indication it was her. The naked lady tree.
I looked down and tears began to flow. Everything I knew was gone. For the first time... I realized I was alone.
-Kalynn Campbell
IT DIED
troubled am I
for it died
like all things
i've done
and tried
it now a stain
a regretted thing
only a corpse
remains
the cadaver and I
sullen the two
it of death
that is true
although not wise
perhaps taboo
I wish it life
pray it anew
but it has died
like all things
i've done
and tried
it expired
into the night
down it went
with a gloaming sun
and I
the only one
upon it's death
wept
-Kalynn Campbell
for it died
like all things
i've done
and tried
it now a stain
a regretted thing
only a corpse
remains
the cadaver and I
sullen the two
it of death
that is true
although not wise
perhaps taboo
I wish it life
pray it anew
but it has died
like all things
i've done
and tried
it expired
into the night
down it went
with a gloaming sun
and I
the only one
upon it's death
wept
-Kalynn Campbell
SHE POISONS ME... AGAIN
again her spirit
flows
into my glass
She goes
on her
I choke
from a drink
of memory
slowly
She
poisons me.
over the rocks
I crash
a twist
of sour crass
a muddle
of disdain
ninety proof
shame
from a drink
She
poisons me...
again.
shaken by design
a stirring
of unkind
poured
without diplomacy
a cocktail
of memory
slowly
in acrid sips
She
poisons me...
again.
-Kalynn Campbell
again her spirit
flows
into my glass
She goes
on her
I choke
from a drink
of memory
slowly
She
poisons me.
over the rocks
I crash
a twist
of sour crass
a muddle
of disdain
ninety proof
shame
from a drink
She
poisons me...
again.
shaken by design
a stirring
of unkind
poured
without diplomacy
a cocktail
of memory
slowly
in acrid sips
She
poisons me...
again.
-Kalynn Campbell
THUS IT (AGAIN) BEGINS….
After sending my new birth, SHE OF THORN, into the world to live a full healthy life - I honestly thought I had seen the last of loss's icy stare, felt the end of longing's sick addictive pull. The longing for a woman I had bled-out through poems and rhyme and tears and narcotic induced sleep prior to my book's messy birth...
But a funny thing happens when you publish a book. It needs you. Like a newborn child, it constantly cries for attention. It demands coddling. With the birth of SHE OF THORN, I've not had much rest from my baby. And what's more, my babies' cry has awakened the nasty spirit of pain's remembrance - the chilling ghost of 'She' has returned in the guise of reviews, fan emails, readings and questions.
Oh, the questions.
"Has SHE read it?" takes the prize for the question most often asked.
No, to my knowledge she has not, and yes, she knew the book was coming out. The last thing she said was, "please don't use my real name, you know the situation."
Yes, her husband would not give me glowing literary reviews, to be certain. But the point remains, with all this SHE in the room, I can't completely pull free of her ghost's painful hold. I am still tethered to her by SHE OF THORN. My problem child reminds me constantly that I am caught up in a seemingly never ending revisiting of old wounds.
Which brings me to this blog intro. What do I do with the new SHE poems that started pouring out of me, all relating to revisited SHE pain? Perhaps a sequel to SHE OF THORN? No, It's certainly not among any of the projects piled before me. First there is my novel IN THE TIME OF THE FLY. It engagingly nudges for a final edit, soon it too will cry like a baby, torturing me every night with it's needs. Then there is the languished grasp of my unfinished novel, THE MUSE, as it constantly tries to seduce me back into it's twisted world. THE MUSE begs me to forsake all else and be its one and only. This room is not big enough for a SHE and a muse it tells me.
No, the new poems have no home as of present.
But wait! A blog sits empty, dusty with need. Yes, an obvious fit. The fresh hemorrhaging of pain needs a killing floor on which to coagulate and this solid floor of a blog will do nicely. Nicely indeed.
So, with dripping hands I now officially hold my bleeding heart and squeeze - haphazardly spilling the tragic memory of SHE until that day SHE no longer pulses within…
once again.
But a funny thing happens when you publish a book. It needs you. Like a newborn child, it constantly cries for attention. It demands coddling. With the birth of SHE OF THORN, I've not had much rest from my baby. And what's more, my babies' cry has awakened the nasty spirit of pain's remembrance - the chilling ghost of 'She' has returned in the guise of reviews, fan emails, readings and questions.
Oh, the questions.
"Has SHE read it?" takes the prize for the question most often asked.
No, to my knowledge she has not, and yes, she knew the book was coming out. The last thing she said was, "please don't use my real name, you know the situation."
Yes, her husband would not give me glowing literary reviews, to be certain. But the point remains, with all this SHE in the room, I can't completely pull free of her ghost's painful hold. I am still tethered to her by SHE OF THORN. My problem child reminds me constantly that I am caught up in a seemingly never ending revisiting of old wounds.
Which brings me to this blog intro. What do I do with the new SHE poems that started pouring out of me, all relating to revisited SHE pain? Perhaps a sequel to SHE OF THORN? No, It's certainly not among any of the projects piled before me. First there is my novel IN THE TIME OF THE FLY. It engagingly nudges for a final edit, soon it too will cry like a baby, torturing me every night with it's needs. Then there is the languished grasp of my unfinished novel, THE MUSE, as it constantly tries to seduce me back into it's twisted world. THE MUSE begs me to forsake all else and be its one and only. This room is not big enough for a SHE and a muse it tells me.
No, the new poems have no home as of present.
But wait! A blog sits empty, dusty with need. Yes, an obvious fit. The fresh hemorrhaging of pain needs a killing floor on which to coagulate and this solid floor of a blog will do nicely. Nicely indeed.
So, with dripping hands I now officially hold my bleeding heart and squeeze - haphazardly spilling the tragic memory of SHE until that day SHE no longer pulses within…
once again.
-Kalynn Campbell
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