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Poetry: Donna Y. Orme-Collins

ICSA Today, Vol. 01, No. 01, pages 22-23

Arts: Poetry

Donna Y. Orme-Collins

Leaders and Followers

Always waiting

To tear me apart

To fix me up good

These miniature Messiahs

To burn away the fat

To take out the garbage

To make emotions clean

To make sex a chore

Setting out tasks

Too hard to carry out

Too heavenly to leave

Talking in tongues

About missions

Fulfil or be fulfilled

Pouring wax on water

Into spaced red eyes

Smacking ourselves awake

Instead of dreaming

We must only sleep when knees give way to ground

Charging around

Spreading importance like peanut butter

Hard to get the taste out

Grabbing at providence

With plastic forks

We camped out in the ditch

To listen to your visions

Packing us into cans and boxes

We donated our blood

And didn't notice that it hurt.

To a Friend’s Mother

mother is a white angel sent to bury me

smother me with wet kisses

cover me with warm tears

smelling of safety

mother is a lifegiver

grave digger

touch me with false loyalties

bathe me in her fear

let me drink it in

protecting her guilty sins

mother is a gift bearer

mock me in my strengths

strengthen my every weakness

until I crawl my whole life

without ever taking steps

mother’s got a clever spell


until my blood runs black

my nails blue

I’ll do anything for you

mother is a white angel sent to bury me

paranoia suits her well

I shall not want your wet kisses

for they bring betrayal

I shall not want your warm tears

for they bring longing

I shall not want your safety

for it brings violent sickness

I shall not want you mother

and then what will you do

to sharpen all your knives

Mother is a white angel

sent to bury me


I’ll rip her wings

Touching Madness

Once a hollow-eyed woman

came and took time

to tell me she was Jesus

He must have lived in many

for the drunk in the corner

swore blind that he was Jesus too.

To think at times I was afraid of the homeless

because they were content with cans & plastic bags.

When Helga started looking for Buddha under her bed

and forgot to eat

they took her away fast in case others followed

her example or became infected

what simple trip wire set the balance off

like my car that needs adjusting

pulling to the right

Half the world sits in those terrifying silences

perhaps we bounce off walls,

pretend we’re grasshoppers or Kings.

If the Christians are right we’re all doomed

If reincarnation is the truth maybe we were all Kings

or bugs

or could have been

if only we brushed our teeth

and shopped at the right places


Words have made my scars beautiful They have made my tears diamonds They have made my pain durable They have given my feelings wings They have kept my heart singing Words have brought me gifts I have made them precious

I have turned them into dreams

Donna Collins was the first "Blessed Child" of the Unification Church in the west. Her parents founded the UC in England. Her story is told in detail in the ICSA video, "Blessed Child." Currently, she is a writer who lives with her family in Las Vegas, Nevada. She says: “I began writing poems at age 7 and have done so ever since. Writing was a great way to survive, express, record and be heard even if only for my own thought process. As I grew with the written word it has remained a deep sense of relief and a profound gift of joy in my life. I have found, as have so many others, that knowledge is freedom, and freedom once attained can rarely ever be taken away. It gives a person power to write because in that moment you change your perception, and if it's any good you might influence another's perception of what is real and what is false. What is so engaging is that with poetry and prose you don't always have to be exacting or make sense, you can in truth be as ‘calm as you are crazy’ or as ‘loud as a stone.’ In essence you are free from the things that bind us here and from the logic of it all. I love poetry that makes a statement that asks something of the reader and suggests a challenge. I have been influenced by many writers mainly; T.S. Eliot, Marge Piercy, Audre Lorde, James Fenton, Sylvia Plath, Dylan Thomas, and Walt Whitman (to name a few). I especially love the dark devouring poems that linger long after the book has regained its dust. I don't pretend anything, greatness or mastership. Words liberated me from a great many griefs, but not all grief can be explained by words.”