Shipwrecked –
tossed ashore by blatant lies,
women’s cries lost
in political gales
Collins says
#MeToo
is valid,
should be continued
Just not this time
Might as well
throw one life preserver
for the millions drowning
Hope GOP have
their own life jackets
handy for the tsunami
that is imminent.
(Written for 50 Word Thursday.)
Weighted down.
I swallow rocks
to anchor this restlessness –
no exit available.
Would love to re-locate,
check self-assessment
into a sunnier place –
but the room is not ready.
I shove it back down –
am a silhouette
against stormy horizons.
My sister and I meet here,
at the edge of denial,
both seeking calmer waters –
she swims; I crave a shower
we are haunted in our sleep –
shadows clouding dreams –
projections of mermaid possibilities
and electric blue skies, dimmed
I gain ground, sifting
through basements, tossing
old ideals, reminiscing cynic;
she breaststrokes through debris
of family storms, ignoring the rubbish-
polluted pool, maintains motion
I am submerged, trying to work out
a relationship with father –
long since deceased, still present
have opened the contents
of our stored horror – no choice
but to carry on…
we are bit players in a staged drama –
no fame to add acclaim – just misguided
endings, fragile audiences, and
a sisters following
a different light
weighted down.
(Weighted Down first appeared here in September of 2016, and has stayed with me, begging to be revised.  Today, as I was playing around with images, I created this one (featured) and felt that it depicted the essence of the poem.  It was time.  I am also submitting this for V.J.’s weekly challenge:  shadows.)
How to separate oneself
from church, from religion –
the indoctrination, like skin
so firmly attached…yet…
there is testimony,
and doubt stirring,
encircling –
stories of violations, and
a niggling disquiet…
a memory…no…wait –
surely it is only the sway
of this modern outcry,
the power of suggestion
influencing mind…
(Abuse perpetrated in the name of religion continues to surface.  I submit this piece in response to the gracious promptings of 50 Word Thursday, Fandango,  and Ragtag Community. Picture is from personal collection.)
Hush Child; you are safe –
torment ended, threat dispersed –
we have survived, whole.
(Ronovan Writes Weekly Haiku Poetry Prompt  is child & safe.)
Played us with hopeful
promises – glimpses of calm –
our tyrant father.
(Added for Fandago’s Daily prompt: Control)
(Written for Ronovan’s Weekly Haiku Challenge #2 Hope/Tyrant)
The years have done their damage,
resentments, like border guards,
line up between us…
and then you just show up,
as if somehow that makes you the better person,
as if your presence will make me forget, forgive
and I fumble for the right words,
attempt graciousness, even as I’m struggling
to feed the hurt, coddle the innocence lost
you hurt the deepest core of me,
the child, barely able to stand on her own,
the burden of her frailty heavy enough
what amusement must you derive
from revisiting our torturous past,
I cannot fathom – all too much for me.
This path I walk is not my own;
it’s paved with genetic markers,
familial dysfunction, and ancestral angst.
Can you see them walking with me?
Those whose lives were cut too short –
the addicts, the tortured, the diseased –
none of us free – ensconced in blame.
If you walk with me,
I’ll help you carry your burden
and you can support me with mine.
I stand at the intersection
of broken dreams and hope for tomorrow
and in my altered state of awareness
see the commonality of our striving,
understand the patterns that divide,
and grasp the illusion of injustice
that denigrates our interconnectedness.
If you walk with me,
I’ll help you carry your burden
and you can support me with mine.
I stop and wait for an opening
to share this revelation
of underlying harmonious intent,
but the whir of societal traffic
complicates communication,
and I can find no voice to cut
through the din of the dead.
If you walk with me,
I’ll help you carry your burden
and you can support me with mine.
I turn the corner on my old life,
detach with loving sorrow
from a road that never served me,
a direction wrought only with pain.
Tiny arms await me on this open road,
eyes wide with wonder and possibility.
There is joy to be found along the way.
If you walk with me,
I’ll share this new adventure
and together, we’ll have much to gain.
(Changing Directions was originally published June, 2015)
Tired of same old endings,
in which hopes are slaughtered
and tragedy and insanity win.
Raised by the bottle, learned
to set standards low –
still afraid of heights –
have fallen as the ground
beneath my aspirations crumbled –
a certainty under alcohol’s rule.
Tired of same old endings,
in which self is battered by indifference
and ego loses the battle for control.
Mother’s denial a coping mechanism
negating children’s need, obliterating
safety, disregarding long-term damage;
even in the older years, when we tried
to get her out, were powerless against
his manipulation, his eternal imprinting.
Tired of same old endings
in which the heroine, resources spent,
succumbs to the madness, suicides.
Want to believe in a future, greener,
hopeful, in which relationships
are fulfilling, and life goals are
supported, in which encouragement
is not fodder for deviousness, and
personal best is rewarded, sustained.
Tired of same old endings
haunting my dreaming hours,
taunting my waking dreams.
Father told me I had no problems –
didn’t even know what problems were,
so I tucked away grief, pretended,
mastered the art of suppression –
what did I matter, after all?
Failed to grasp the underlying message –
ignored the extent of his personal pain,
translated indifference into selfish agendas,
set up walls to protect myself, against him,
projecting rejection onto others.
Too late now, I understand, hurt for the
distance created by misunderstandings,
recognize with deep sorrow that our timing
was out of rhythm – society unable to fathom
the secrets that we held – unnecessary burdens
Wonder if I will ever unravel the deceit,
unwrap the loss of self, the shame, recover
a sense of self-worth that allows for acceptance
of problems without self-reproach, or guilt;
will gain the capacity for far-reaching forgiveness.
When it comes to caring,
I’m a pro – engaged,
wholehearted, well…
except that my toddler
self joins in, and no matter
how proper I try to act –
she is such a fetching child,
bright, inquisitive – she
distracts me from purpose,
gets me off-track, and I hate
being behind, and anxiety
acts up, and the subject of my
focus departs, leaves me solo,
abandoned like the baby,
memories of saturated diapers
unattended to, and the raw
scratch of tears unanswered,
and I’m not trained to care for
inner children, essentially
overlooked, innocence tainted.
One Woman's Quest 