As a child, I knew no limits, setting out on adventures with never a fear for how I’d find my way back home.
Now, nestled in my home, I limit myself to certainties, fearful of risks.
Some days, I wonder about that child, and how it would feel to wander freely, and it makes me smile.
The body may be hindered, but the imagination remains forever young.
(Post originally appeared on One Woman’s Quest II, May 2022)
I know a little girl,
whose hair in ringlets
falls, unkempt from lack
of brushing; who stands
when she should be sitting;
who laughs with defiance when
challenged, her dark eyes gleaming
with mischief; who holds her chin up
high and stamps her feet, arms folded
in protest when she does not get her way.
I see that little girl,
have watched her play,
with a wild imagination,
and a fearless temperament;
have watched her climb a tree,
scrap with any bully, and dare to
venture on her own; have witnessed
her alone times, hidden and obscured,
watched as she cried unheeded, buried
herself in books, drawing, and future dreams.
I feel that little girl,
who wears such a brave
exterior to mask her inner
fears; who bears a burden of
responsibility to carry the weight
of those around her; who believes
she has the power to make her mother
cry, to cause her father’s violence, to save
her sisters from pain; who feels the punishment
of her situation and ascribes it to unworthiness.
I love that little girl,
whose mind is always
churning, who prays to a
god she’s never seen, and
makes wishes on rainbows;
who longs to make a difference,
and refuses to believe that suffering
is all there is; who devotes herself to
being a better person, and hopes one day
that she’ll finally feel at peace in the world.
I hold that little girl,
warm within my heart,
listen to her fears, hear
her heart’s longing; praise
her courageous efforts, appease
her doubts, offer condolences for
losses, encouragement for change,
forgive her of her burdens; allay her
misperceptions, reassure her worth,
promise to never let her go: she is me.
An incorrigible hag
engages my loneliness –
like an assassin sniffing out
any scent of vulnerability
I am lowering standards
this history of imprisonment
enabling inappropriate openings
I cry for new perspective
ponder after boundaries
intending to defend
Like an unwanted bullseye
I am pursued on repeat
malice considering me
a problem to be solved
Who is this old woman
whose thoughts are daggers
who calls upon predators
to devour my freedom?
And what ancestral legacy
sets me on such tenuous ground
entrusts the key to my soul
to such devilish factions?
I strike out and miss
am twice thwarted
but refuse to submit
Have espied the resources within
will defeat the infernal voices
and confront the witch
Wits calculating
confidence a repellent
teetering on the edge of victimhood
not a path I care to repeat.
(Ink sketch my own)
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.)
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)
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)
(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)
(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)
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)
Revisiting past posts as I take this time to gain balance. Photo circa 1975.
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.
One Woman's Quest 