Passion for writing ignites my soul's momentum
Had a weird sort of lexicon
the man who professed
to be my dad –
Clamped in his chokehold
he’d demand words of devotion
Became inured to this dichotomy –
spent a lifetime searching for love –
Just the right balance of cruelty and kind.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Sketch mine.)
Summer of ’67
British invasion
Canada claiming 100 –
Dad arrives home
in a powder puff
blue convertible.
Back seat sisters
long hair flapping
bellowing along
with 8-track tunes:
Loving Spoonful
“Do you believe in magic?”
I, barely nine
idolizing a sister
sixteen – a model
with go-go boots
and hippie style
Cottaged at Sauble
muscle cars prowling
oiled bodies lounging
and all eyes lit
on sister, and I
wondering at the draw
made castles in the sand.
Surfing the waves
avoiding the baby
whose brash cries
and quick, chubby legs
keep Mom distracted,
I am observer of the life
Neil Diamond is promising:
“Girl, you’ll be a woman soon.”
Ah, to be 9, in summertime
few the cares, and ideas
like popcorn, burst and pop,
forgotten in each watery plunge
still content to be a child.
(A Convertible Summer first appeared here in June of 2018. I submit this edited version for Eugi’s Causerie Weekly challenge: summer. Image my own.)
The place remains in my dreams
like a movie set preserved…
Have assigned each room
a critique – disclosed the crimes
Yet, it remains, like a beacon
draws me to it, begs reflection
What if I could go back
now that I can breathe
Now that I’ve laid claim to maturity
would I discover a sudden windfall
makeover conditioned motifs
reevaluate ceiling heights
with resources to remodel
heart open, connected
might I uncover abundance
like a personal embrace.
(For Reena’s Exploration Challenge: featured image.)
Not yet double digits when the sting
of rejection punctured my ego –
“We can’t play with you,” peers
gloated; “our mothers said.”
What did I know of reasons
or replies, just felt a part of me die.
Still trying to win approval,
heal my nine-year-old heart.
