She prepared me for the worst
omission of positives purposeful –
Saving me from disappointment
her justification for inflicted wounds –
Years, I’ve railed against her abuse
pointless since she’s long been a ghost.
Category: Family
The Pawn
Of course she is away
caught in the schism
of her parents’ divorce
played like a pawn
She is emotionally numb
incapable of articulating
wants and desires – broken
though no one notices.
(Poem originally appeared on Twitter. Visit me @Vjknutson. Image from personal collection.)
Christmas Baking
Dates soften in the pan –
I stir with preoccupation
fresh-faced excitement
motivating each step.
I measure sugar, oats,
flour, the enormity
of my heart’s capacity
to love these young ones.
Add butter, and mix,
each stroke a hug,
anticipating enjoyment
a sweet connection.
Pat and bake, timer set,
bright eyes and tiny palms
lift upwards with sparkle –
Christmas cheer upon us.
(For Ragtag Community’s prompt: mix. Image from personal collection.)
Cured
Grandma!
the word wraps me
in bubbly warmth –
an invasion of limbs
impress upon my heart –
best mood-altering
prescription ever!
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter. Follow me @Vjknutson. Image from personal collection.)
Was That Really Me?
Was that really me,
signed his life away
fresh-faced, innocent
marched North
then sailed East
to unknown seas?
Fuelled by anticipation,
anchored by camaraderie,
that boy who crawled
through jungle deep
weathered Burma heat
and nightmarish infestations,
adrenaline pumping
infiltrated enemy lines
unarmed, feckless
nursed fears with booze
adopted false bravado.
Was that really me,
that man who emerged
hard-edged, battle-weary,
whose medals of bravery,
buried now, speak more
of loss, and horror
than triumph –
And who is this,
whose rage intimidates
with trigger-sharp precision,
who ravages all that is dear
ideals slaughtered,
hopes destroyed,
whose enemy
now dwells within?
(Today is Remembrance Day. Spurred by the prompts of Reena’s Exploration Challenge – “Was that really me?” and Ragtag Community’s “bravery“, I have tried to put myself in my father’s shoes. He fought for the British Commandos during WWII, and in hindsight, suffered PTSD.)
Parental Poison
A milk jug,
handle turned in,
was all it took
for father to lather,
a barrage of curses
decrying our lack of worth,
foaming from his mouth –
spittle that remains lodged
in our psyche – drug
resistant venom.
(Tuesdays poems come from Twitter. Follow me at @Vjknutson. Image from personal collection.)
Discipline
That tone –
teeth clenched
lips taut
the coldness
in your gaze
I swallow
anxiously
shifting
foot to foot
await
raise of hand
fist clenched
in ball of rage
smugness
vanquished
in ominous wait
but you pause
step back
straighten
mouth relaxing
into a grin
with a twinkle
admit
you might have
done the same.
(Written for All The Shoes I Wear, whose prompt is ominous.
