Author: susan.powers.bourne

poet . artist . creative herstorian

Suicide | In Truth

Suicide is so personal, isn’t it? That’s one reason why attention to ‘celebrity suicides’ seems so odd. I grew up with a manic-depressive mother, who made many attempts on her life over the years. Ironically, Nancy lasted till 90 and died last February — but I always lived with the possibility that she would end her life at any moment. My second son’s biological father hanged himself about ten years ago in his bedroom –where we had conceived my son — and where the man left himself hanging for another of his sons to find him on his own birthday. My first cousin died on Valentine’s Day due to an overdose of pills and alcohol. His father had died by asphyxiation — slept in a car in the garage on a cold winter night. Never knew if it was intentional or not. In my daily research on women, I discover many who have taken their own lives. After the two most recent public episodes, I wrote this piece to speak to my own feelings and experience with this issue. I’ll share it here.

Suicide: In Truth

There are so many times
I’d have loved to end it all.

But, in my rock-bottom heart,
I do not believe in suicide

as any kind of kind solution.
Why leave others with endless

days of pain and misery because
you wouldn’t share your own?

Share who you are as you are —
reveal yourself to another soul.

Speak out your inner angst —
as well as any angelic joys!

Let others know who you are —
or at least want to be — before

departing, depriving us of your
divinely vaulted, faulted being.

Do not leave us — grieving!
The loss of your spirit-soul

diminishes us and all others.
Hold on to the thinnest thread!

Call out — and call to us — so
we can all survive this — together.

. . . . .

spb 13 jun 2018

Literal Arts

Twenty-four hours,

seven days, twelve

months every year.

Moons rise and set —

planets spin and whirl,

children run and play.

Dinner, breakfast,

lunch. Daily snacks,

picnics, barbecues.

Home repairs, child-

care, overnights —

vacations, holidays.

Carpools, snow-days,

bedtime stories. Back

rubs, no-naps, alarms.

Boys, boots, balls, 

girls, toys, tools —

men and medicine.

Stretch, sigh, search:

extra-credit, extra-

curricular activities.

Domesticated arts,

humor, joy, school:

release — creativity.

. . . . .



tidewater washes, shifts sands —

delivers soft iridescence, reflects

glistening beauties — wave after wave.

we pick a few pink-spiral conch —

calcified remnants we can carry home,

nature’s reminders of past-pulverized

selves – seaworthy pieces we may place

upon a shelf or up against an ear –

hear distant, undulating memories swell

and recede — bound now by hard shell.

. . . . . . .

Susan Powers Bourne

Along Carpeted Hallways

I searched for my down coat:
full-length, no buttons, deep
sea-green — shimmering silk.

I moved on Persian carpets then Tibetan,
tatami, then Turkish, New England hand-
hooked rugs — all worn — but serviceable.

Families from each culture lived along the
edges of each different rug. They all tried to
help me as they could, but no one had seen

hide nor hair of any
deep sea-grass green
full-length, down-filled
coat — with no buttons.

Finally, someone offered
a short gull-green jacket
to ward off the cold as
I made my way home.

Now — awake —
I will seek and
find my lovely
long silky coat

and I will find
all those rugs.
. . . . .



who knows how

much mysteries hold

or withhold —

why breached hearts

arrest or reaffirm,

skip a beat or open up —

all we know is this:

breath moves in and out —

solar-lights appear –

moons fill each month —

memories wake us.

. . . . . . .

susan powers bourne