Bipolar Sunday
Red Hot Chili peppers strumming
through the ceiling as my upstairs
neighbor plays his fuzzy electric
guitar. Weird phrases
keep falling from my fingertips
and I rise, a baby phoenix,
from the fire and ice of manic
depression, crazed and alone.
Sometimes it feels like
peacock tails and dusty tumbleweeds.
The pace revved up inside
my well-greased and dripping brain.
Captivated by a sparkle or
brought low by an unkind word,
I turn slowly,
a broken-winged angel,
towards the musical face of the sun.
Kallima Hamilton's worked as an assistant museum librarian, ESL instructor and legal clerk. Her poetry has appeared in Mudlark, Sugar Mule and Shenandoah.
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