Category: childhood

Mother

When I had a mother
my hair would cascade
in curls of auburn perfection
a red velvet bow to accentuate the wave

And I’d wear my best
newly sewn frock
with lace at the neck
and fishnet stockings
and patent Mary Janes

And the girls giggling with delight
would skip hand-in-hand
to the school prom
and the boys shyly perched
against the back wall would wonder
how to behave, and we’d blush
in return, begging them to dance

But now I have no mother
and no matter how hard I try
I cannot tame my too wild hair
it’s bi-coloured frizz
a nest of betrayal

And no girls invite me
to join hands
my state of dishevelment
a conundrum to be ignored

So I stand against the back wall
and hide amongst the boys
and stay far away from the gossip

And everyone says it’s because
I have no mother.

(Image my own. This poem originated from a dream, so is meant to be metaphorical, not literal.)

Father, Daughter

Is a child meant
to carry her father’s legacy?
The discomfort of his skin
rubbing against her dreams
till she is fallen, raw,
paralyzed and unable to flourish?

Is a daughter meant
to carry the burden
of her father’s grief?
His powerlessness hers?
His fate hers to shatter?

I wear my father’s hurt
like a personal affront
am armed to go to battle

searching for the words
that will set us both free

He lying in his grave
me, awake and able.

(Photo collage my own)

Strawberry Season

Strawberries ripen, their scarlet-red sweetness staining the cheeks of students whose bodies, unripened, rail against the conformity of stiff backed chairs and bolted down desks.  Spring has dared to don the cloak of summer – green emboldened fields trampling over delicate beginnings; and we are splash pad, motorcycle revving, boom box crazy, ready to plunge into the swelter, restless.

Strawberries ripen
Spring’s sweet offerings foretell –
Summer games begin.

(Image my own)

The Department Store Tower

(Warning: Poem makes reference to child abuse)

She taught me how to stay out of sight
the women who worked the candy counter

Dragged my fourteen-year-legs in beside her
as management brushed past, oblivious

Stick to the aisles and passageways, she said
Make sure you are always busy.

She couldn’t say the words that burned on her tongue:
He’ll follow you into darkened corners of the warehouse
He’ll lock the doors and tell you it’s all your fault

No one talked about what this man did,
five floors beneath the department store opulence
While people shopped, and ate, and bought

The wheels of consumerism, well-oiled
stuffing our consciousness with lies and deceit
the vulnerable confined to shadows and margins

But some of us will never forget
Innocent fragments haunting locked corners
Ensuing rage still railing against the injustice
That puts a pedophile in charge.

(Image my own)

Who Am I?

(Trigger warning: this poem alludes to child abuse)

Who I am
if not a harbinger –
eyes turned to the sky
diligent?

And what defines me
beyond calm in a crisis
action-taking, firmly
responsible?

No bystander here
I will fight injustice
free the wrongfully accused
capable

Driven
driving
fearless
awake

No sleeping
when danger presents
turmoil relentless
nightmares persist

Visions of uprising
and natural disasters
filling my dreams –
I grow weary

I cry, but no one is listening
the bustle outside reflective
of lives being lived
while I cower

Worried that the sky will fall
and I will be too torn
too bruised
to rise to the occasion

That child I coddled
now questioning my motives
that woman I saved
scoffing at my delusion

I am neither saint nor saviour
I am just a woman/child running
from the drunk under the table
still trying to define herself
as anything but his prey.

(Drawing is my own)

Unexpected Delight

The wind subsided
momentarily
and the river stood still
and I caught your reflection
memories flooding back

When days were warm
and innocence nurtured imagination
and you held me in your arms –
a creature no different than
the squirrels and birds
who shared a branch

I loved you like a mother –
your steadfastness
the drapery of your foliage –
hiding made sublime

Oh, how my heart swelled
recalling the simplicity  –
how easy it was to believe
that trees had spirits
and the wind could talk
and the stillness of the day

To climb, to ascend,
to know that sacred ladder
that lifted me high above

The moment passed
the water rippled
but the inspiration remains

Your roots hold the promise
dear Willow, I am sure –
thank you for the reflection

(Art my own)

Family Portrait

Revisiting past posts as I take this time to gain balance. Photo circa 1975.

Family Portrait

Note: My youngest sister (pictured on the left) and myself (in the middle facing the camera) are the only “survivors” of our family chaos. Mom passed this past May; our eldest sister (next in the lineup) died at 43 of cancer; Aunt D, next to me, of cancer at 68; our other sister suffers schizophrenia and Parkinson’s lives in long-term care; the baby of the group lost to heroin addiction and what we now recognize as human trafficking in her late teens.

Intangibles

Mother followed all the trends –
Scarsdale and grapefruit diets,
minis and maxis,
platforms and pumps –
reaching for an ideal
my child’s mind
could not comprehend

Father dreamt of a voice makeover
had flown his ancestral roots
in search of…what?
I did not know

I learned that men
were to be pleased,
and compassion
was a woman’s role
and it was folly to hazard
confrontation when alcohol
was in the mix,

Intangible as life was
I deduced that secrets –
the avoidance of scandal –
rendered women ineffective

and by the very circumstance
of my birth, I was tainted,
weighted by shame
destined to endure
pain as love
invested in
my worthlessness

Except life is evolution
and rage emerges
from oppression
and conviction
smashes the impotence
of ideals, embraces
the abstracts
of fluidities,

and merging out of shame
I see that struggle
is opportunity

and that rewriting legacies
is an honourable goal
and I do have power
in any given moment…

only wish
I had known it
sooner.

(Art my own)