Author's Statement My work is about awakening choices and about keeping a promise. It questions reality, as if someday we may all see more than just shadows on a cave wall. In our world of chaos, I work to expose new perceptions, to relate what a few already know just by breathing. In order to communicate the vision of this transcendence, I give observations. These are a few frightening things and a few beautiful charms about the labyrinth of life. This compilation is my version of transforming personal experience into timeless mythology, like a river that rumbles, then rests serenely. My story comes from a place of deep inner stirring. Through tangible poetry, I reconcile with madness that might otherwise claim a person in the midst of domestic violence. These increasing artistic moments of uniting heart, mind, body, and spirit are like musical notes that forever remain as expressed energy. Sometimes it even seems as though everything that exists has wild eyes. I work with the intention of becoming more aligned with my spiritual self in order to share the experience and connect others to a deeper level of life within themselves. Rose's Collage is a dance, an appreciation of those who went before us, a continuation of the artistic currents of the Universe, and about hope, because we have to believe. We have to really believe.

Rose's Collage Perhaps she wanted dreams to fly When she met this person. Perhaps she only wanted to fly Away from this person But felt she had no choice. She didn’t have physical wings And didn’t believe strongly enough In metaphors so day by day life Was restricted and excavated By this other person. He controlled all her money, spent it all. He told her who her friends were, Acted wary of them all out of insecurity, Called her names and gave her bruises But her bones were much too strong For him to break. She was a tattered woman With a numb face who wore war paint Dawn through dusk And sometimes into night. At times she resembled a mannequin Used for this or that purpose But not feelingless and not heartless. The mannequin is someone Else’s trophy to display. At times she also resembled a marionette With strings operated by a puppeteer. She danced around and sang A little song because her job Was to impress and thus, She made the puppeteer proud Of his dolly, for a moment. Secretly in the back dressing room When changing between costumes, She joined with other mannequins And marionettes To form an alliance To escape from the love-hate dance. Today breaks up yesterday’s bondage, Melts it with her steamy breath. Women held hands in a circle, Danced, cried, and told each other stories Until they developed clever plans To sneak away one by one. Some felt so tainted, dirty, and deceptive For turning away from the puppeteer But they also began to feel fabulous And time can do so much. Now she sees others without shoes During midnight escape. Another escape artist finds slippers To provide cushion for feet, Eats soup from a can, Makes milk from a box, And slips into a bed waiting for her. Some have no interest In support groups or counseling. A mattress, a meal, and an ear that will listen Are enough for now. All other concerns are pushed aside Into the forgotten library Of the long-term memory Where they will, no doubt Show up until they are dealt with. Here, a woman is a fugitive From her own home built With her four-chambered heart, With blood and with bruises Yet she meets new people where she goes, Whether she likes them or not. There is crying, tension, Silence, sharing, and moving. “Who are these people?” she asks. They got here by calling a phone number Someone handed to them in secret. There was no name attached To the seven-digit number Which sometimes is a door from here to there Amongst the endless doors Before and after this one. Here she is after telling an ear A deep dark secret on the telephone. She could no longer deny a truth Revealing itself behind Purple silk curtains Because she did not one day want The curtains to reveal a murder mystery. A voice on the other end of the phone Guaranteed nothing but a matress, A bite to eat, a toothbrush, And more phone numbers. Others here may or may not Be friends yet they eat together, Cry together, and perhaps might not See each other again until They are stars in the sky. She wants to be anonymous. Her phone number is unpublished. Her social security number is changed. She hopes her abuser Cannot find her now. She must find therapy for her damaged soul, Health-care for her broken-down body, And clothes to replace The ones ripped off her. Although detoxing from an abuser may be lonely, Depressing and terrifying, now she may go Where she pleases and talk With whom she pleases. She is poor and free, free from expecting Idealism where it cannot be found. She is victorious. Rose’s healing process includes a collage. This was a support group project To be completed in a two-hour period But she cannot put it away Unless she rests also. At night, the collage sleeps with the sewing supplies. Newspaper and magazine clippings Dance with her soul day into night. To her, this is music. She is a drum with ribbons tied into her hair. She is a colorful collage Photocopied into black and white. She is framed in red for this is her blood life. She is black and white and bordered by red. She is the news that never Entered the newspaper.

Bird Watching This garden of vine and health Is a fitting place for bird life And human life gathering In celebration of marriage. Hearts point toward One another so that fulfilling fate Is a blessing multiplying Into blessings. Finches and plovers In their chirpy flighty life Of eating and bathing And laying and mating Watch friends and relatives Visit during the tea party Accompanied by lemon And mint squares. Tradition here meant that We would play tennis Except my shoes were left in My truck parked at A friend’s house back in the USA Along with my blue Gap hat that I thought was lost In the basement. Instead, we are bird watchers With binoculars and Audubon books At Chaplin, a sodium sulfate mine From which we get detergent, Textile dye, paper, and mineral feeds. These inland lakes are inhabited By migrating shorebirds traveling Between Alaska and South America. From these waters come brine shrimp. Hundreds of eggs we barely see Sit on my fingertip after I brushed The brown shore To take a closer look At life swimming and fluttering Through the food chain Ecosystem of time. Melting glaciers created Prairie potholes. Wetlands scattered Across the plains of Canada Providing resting places For migratory birds during flights. Here we find piping plovers, Sanderlings, sandpipers, Godwits, and willets. Birds communicate through calls Whistling, singing, and squawking. They drive off intruders, Instruct chicks, and mate. They feed in groups, Dig their bills in mud, Or hunt on sight by pausing Then racing. An avocet puts on a show for guests. She is a charmer with her long legs, Brilliant rusty orange neck, And long bill tipping upward. She runs in front of us, Lifts black and blue striped wings wide, And beckons us to trail her. We do. Her nest is protected. Skies are vast and lakes are wide, Providing habitat for many creatures. Between prairies of clover We drive on a dirt road Between shallow lakes Where it appears that long-legged American avocets and willets Are walking on water. Indeed this is a holy place, A sanctuary in the land of living skies. Here in Saskatchewan the Sun Breaks through clouds. Rays cascade down Through blue skies touching Earth Like blessings and kisses On sparkling silver lakes.

Bones I stare at you— Staring . . . Staring . . . My gaze studies you— You and your bones In functional places. Students draw Standing at easels Me and my bones. They apologize for the nose Say it is the hardest part Though it’s made of cartilage. You have no nose— You skeleton poster I stare at for lengths. I am quiet and still— A naked mannequin Performing duty. I hold pose for artists On a raised platform In the center of a room. Each of their newsprint sheets Displays expressions Of thoughts or emotions. Yet I just stand here Staring at your bones Against paper. Back in the skull Memory trickles Down the spine. Vertebra by vertebra Like rain on windows Everything is clear. We remember with our bones So when I rest and wither I will leave my bones.