She looks over my shoulder
that sister, born dying –
whom I mocked, cajoled
and judged so harshly
She breathes down my neck
that sister, I despised
for her sin, and mistakes
how she always abandoned me
She taunts me constantly
ridicules my failing ways
her thoughts poisoned darts
attack me at my core
My eyes are opening,
compassion too late
“Karma bites”, her ghost
hisses as illness seeps in.
(For Reena’s Xploration Challenge: karma bites. Image my own)
Talk to me of horses
the young man says
thin locks of blonde matted
on a sweaty brow, flashes of blue
that fade as eyes succumb
to weariness, the constant
whoosh, whoosh of respirator.
Talk to me of horses:
the world is losing its grip
and I care not about
the weather or car mechanics,
but I dream of horses
and I am feeling so emotional –
help me understand.
So, I come daily to his bedside
wait for moments of lucidity
ponder the implications
of his questions, wrestle with
my own inadequacies –
I am merely student here.
We discuss horses –
the power of their bodies
their beauty and grace
their role throughout history –
decide they are ferrymen
transporting souls across worlds –
an explanation that satisfies, then…
I am seeing things, he strains
embarrassed even in these final hours
to describe what seems inconceivable,
between sleep and awake, figures
grey and frightening hover over
my bed like body snatchers….
A chill runs over me, as if icy
fingers have caressed my skin
and I shudder despite myself
scramble to maintain calm
wonder aloud if it is not just fear
projecting grey into light
clouding his vision.
I missed his passing the next day
arriving to find his mother waiting
“He left you a message,” her eyes
quizzical, “says that you were right
about the visions; there was nothing to fear”
I smile through the grief –
ever the teacher that one
now dead at twenty-one
“Oh, and one more thing”, she adds “
“Could you talk to me of horses?”
(Talk to Me of Horses first appeared her in April 2018. This version has been edited slightly. Image my own.)
Rebellion rages in my veins, Dreamcatcher,
so tightly wound I have blocked hope
I want to be good – a good girl –
like that man of God says
but his preaching ways violate
prophecies a cover for sin
and I am so sullied that I fear
love will distain me.
How did I get here, Dreamcatcher
childhood a lost notion –
I try to minister to the past,
but Father’s sermonizing possesses
even in death, his will a barricade
I need guidance to help me emerge
I’m an unreliable navigator, Dreamcatcher,
oppression’s familiar, no high able to release me
suspicion of promises nauseates
I’m tired of facades – good girl facades –
locked in this nightmare
won’t you please help me out?
(For Eugi’s Weekly prompt: dreamcatcher. Art my own)
This outer toughness
just conditioning
a baby alligator
that’s me
Raised in a swamp
Eat or be eaten!
family mantra, and
Deal with it!
I know it’s a lot
to take in
see the disbelief
in civilized eyes
Resistance to oppression
begets deeper wounds
Fear taught me well
Survival, they say, of the fittest.
(For Reena’s Xploration challenge: featured image is prompt.)
Child
delightful youth
my heart’s jewel
light-bearer
hope
antics haphazard
laughter contagious
spreading joy
sparking imagination
I pray that your spirit
remains vibrant, and
that reality dawns gently
(This poem first appeared in November 2018, as A Child Glows. I submit an edited and re-titled version here for Eugi’s Weekly prompt: jewels. Image my own.)
For every child
vowed to be the calyx
to cradle each budding soul
with a tender heart
But I am imperfect
ideals devolving
in the face of loss
cross unbearable
Tend my own garden now
recognizing the power
of example overriding
oppression of control.
(Image my own)
Fancy myself pragmatic
but these cherubic faces
render me nostalgic
Not for the times –
for they were hard –
but for the ideal lost
Speculate on failings
shallow expectations,
pray I did enough.
(Found this old photograph of my two girls.)
No amount of empathy
could help me understand
the storm inside my father
Even in his death, thoughts
cloud my writing, his presence
preserved in prose…
(Even though it’s been fifteen years, my father’s essence remains strong – sometimes taunting, sometimes inspiring, always mysterious.)
Girls are lucky: just need to find the right man –
looked after for life.
Advice from a teenaged brother.
Right! I yell back, fifty years later.
It was all a vacation –
raising the children on my own
looking for God in the midst of chaos
partners with wandering eyes
or absent…always absent…
still waiting for that “looking after”
And how did you make out, Brother Dear?
Oh, that’s right… married
… woman with a good job
willing to let you putter in the background
Guess we were both misled.
(Image my own.)
History invents theorem
generation repeating
variations on a misery
absent fathers
mothers overwhelmed
heartache welded
into young psyches
till inspiration invites
a new hypothesis.
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own.)
One Woman's Quest 