Poetry Slam: Mute

Today I may be having surgery so I decided to post this. I’m not really sure I want anyone else to see this poem but I figured that​ if I don’t make it through today than you will know where I am, and that if I do come through this than you will know how I feel. I can’t decide which one of those two things is more important.




I am mute

I am mad


No words of Thanksgiving can be found

My vocabulary insufficient to describe this indignation


My hands are thrown up in frustration

Today​ I lower them without uttering a single syllable of praise

Even a wordless scream I can not produce,

incapable of providing  voice to my emotions


Anger wells within me

Hot as a Nova

And twice the size


Fury seizes me

Throwing me to the dirt


And as my rage burns like a wild-fire

Hope sputters like a candle consumed down to a battered wooden table top


The table is not well used-

It’s been abused


It’s remaining surface scarred by those whose purpose was to scourge

3 planks pilfered by those with ill intention


A few scratches the result of guest’s careless words and deeds

Numerous scuffs caused by the owners​ disregard and neglect


The table has three legs,

Seemingly one careless bump alway from disaster


One impact to extinguish hope,

Or consume hopes home


The resident preferring immolation in the light

To suffocation in the dark


The home is crumbling

Yet its resident can not escape


Held prisoner by a body Which does not obey

Trapped by the ravages of disease


And as disease ravages the body

Another “D” joyfully conducts the crescendo of rage


Encouraging the occupant to flip the table

To douse the flame


To hide it under a bushel


The flame licks the table top,

But it doesn’t burn


Even as hope sputters, it doesn’t die



Three legs, that’s the key

Three legs are straight and even


Father, Son, and Spirt: they hold the battered soul aloft

They keep hope *no matter how feeble* illuminating the occupants world


The home will degrade

Yet the soul will be made whole


The prisoner’s​ sentence is uncertain

But the 3 who are waiting for her are worth the wait


For without them the prison would be unbearable,

Parole pointless


And so for today anger wells

But  for eternity the Lord dwells


Even as words of praise elude me

Even as fear and fury still burn in my belly


I find I am no longer mute

I’ve found words to say… to bellow… to sing!


Words installed in my heart…

…When the table was new

…When the candle was tall

…When the home was not a prison


The Devil…

He can go Sit. On. A. Tack.


And someday soon, even in my incarceration, God will restore my candle


And I will still Know the joy…

Down in my heart… in my soul…


In his presence



I am not mute

I am a minstrel


May 28, 2017*


*The day I was told I would need surgery and the cyst might be cancerous



Author: CW Daniels

Hi, I'm CW Daniels! I'm a family caregiver to my mother HS Daniels who has dementia. I also have some major health challenges of my own. Making the pieces of my life fit together is a challenge and I don't always get it right (Okay, so I almost never get it right!) but I'm figuring it out and learning my lessons along the way (and collecting quite a few resources and ideas while I'm at it). Join me on my journey of frustration, faith, and fun.

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