Category: grief

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.)

Let Me Out Of Here

Weighed down by complications –
you see, the amount of baggage
I carry surpasses my storage
capacity; and despite attempts
to simplify, paranoia tends to
my bathroom routines, and
no amount of persuasion can
appease her suspicions; and
the majority of my contents
have been accumulated by
my father’s business, and not
really mine to unload, although
I try, his tyranny still haunts me;
and well, anything new that I
start has to be protected from
the familial bouts of insanity;
and that is why I just want to
pack my bags and get out of
here, and be a mother to my
children; but it’s complicated.

(Art my own)

Nested

Nestled in with childhood truths –
secondhand
perspective missing

Nursing a creeping creativity –
insignificant lucidity expanding
measurably hurried

Once social, now retreating
papered over failure
have fallen
frigid waves infiltrating
chronically pained
over and over
contemplating flight
freedom

Voiceless
expressionless
flat
even revelation muted
unmoving

protective boundaries
discussed
now crumbling
underestimated the struggle
the pervasiveness

Consider a militant approach
strident restrictions
nullifying passions
but I am a weaver

open to uncovering
blessings in failure,
compensated by soaring –
grounded yet questing
unsettled

disease is not a repellent for the mind
conjures movement in the sedentary
creatures born of defensiveness

I am motivated to find renewal
dank, moist, lacking flame
in this explosive personal nest.

(Written during my bedbound days, 2017. Edited for this edition. Image my own)


When Love Fails

Slammed by expectations
silenced by your rage
the hero in me exhausted

I can’t make it right, my love
when communication is forbidden
and the voices in your head
hold us both hostage

I’m clinging to memories
resolved to leave here
integrity intact
identity intact

The mayhem in your words
has cut the ties –
I know where I stand
mental health at stake

I’m setting my intention
walking away –
will find my own footing
and hope you don’t forget

That love always holds answers
and despite my somber exterior
the back door to my heart
is always open

(Art my own)

They Tried to Warn Me

The serpent alerted me
boa sized terror disrupting sleep
I tried to push it back
but the beast insisted
“Keep driving forward, woman
I am at your side”

It came again
infiltrating my slumber
with a wide mouthed warning –
“I could consume you,
you better be ready”

Of course, I looked away.

It was a tiger next,
whose force, unmistakeable
sat upon my legs
rendering me inert
“You will pay attention”
he warned. No argument there

But how am to decipher
these nightly messages
the power of such beings
infiltrating my waking moments
am I going mad?

It would be the wolf
whose presence caught me
mid-flight, awake while dreaming
that startled me the most
“No time”, he said, “the moment is now”

And I awoke with a shudder
heart drumming an anxious tempo


and that’s when the letter arrived
telling me that we were finished
flesh of my flesh
no longer forgiving
and then the dog died
and I know that things come in threes
and the threads of my heart
barely holding on
can’t handle anything else
and my mind burns with questions

If only I’d paid attention
when that first snake appeared.

(Inspired by dreams. My art)

Oh, How I Pray

These hovering lows
how does one escape the pull?

Defensiveness a useless tool
I cannot read intentions

I self-animate
a contrived endeavour

Shine reduced
I am humbled
off colour

Grief, on repeat
I want to disappear
like Peter Pan
childlike, armed
with illustrious fantasies

Could this be metamorphosis –

A paralytic calm
a spell-binding ponder
cracking righteousness
till clarity fades the gray

Oh, how I pray it is
the light of love
chiseling a new path

(Inked sketch my own)

I Remember

That day we strolled riverside
Wild poppies in full bloom
guiding us

The reassurance you needed
stuck on my tongue –
age and language separating us

We walked in silence –
a regret I carry

Now the poppies remind me
that you were less than naive
that life had wounded you
and that what I had to offer
was so much more than
a voiceless presence

But I was afraid too
And I let you go

My heart bleeds
the colour of poppies
My breath catching
every time I remember

That day
when the river guided us
and the poppies bloomed
and I failed to listen.

(Dedicated to my dear Alina, who had to be brave at a vulnerable time, and whom I miss dearly. Image my own.)

Burials

Stretchers and body bags
Men in fire suits
stepping over the debris
their load light, macabre

Images charred into my psyche –
four cousins dead
the eldest ten
It was 1968

Now, we stand at an adjacent grave
the children’s headstone an open book –
frozen in time – so many chapters unwritten-
the grief has not lessened

We’ve gathered to bury an uncle
youngest of ten –
only one remains –
the children’s father

At 95, he chokes on words
points to his children in the ground –
Those are my kids! he croaks
although we didn’t need the reminder

Tragedy lingers in the heart
in the mind
in the collective consciousness

I turn on the news –
tiny body bags
on stretchers
carefully removed
from the debris

Tragedy: a forever thread
in the tapestry of life.

(Image my own)



Dear Dad

I miss your wisdom;
could use some about now,
confidence lacking

Life’s what you make of it,
you’d say, and
You’re doing a good job…

Truth is, I’ve made a lot of mistakes –
call it stubbornness or stupidity-
but I failed to plan, Dad

Not bemoaning life
It’s been really good
and I know you did the same

I’m just tired of doubting my self
Watching the rest of the world
reach their goals and then retire

While I can never tell –
am I doing a good job
am I even appreciated?

Remember the day my marriage died
and I came to you, crumpled
spewing anger, defeated…

And you cried with me
raging on my behalf, said:
Goddamn it, you deserve better than this!

Funny that through all the pain
your walls, my walls
you, alone could see me

Tragic how I only understand that now
death and years separating us –
my need for you still raw.

(Image my own – cut and paste with AI)

Everyday Ghosts

“My father will always be a touchstone ghost. He comes around often, especially late at night when I’m singing…” – Raymond King Shurtz

A touchstone ghost?
My father?
A thick shame falls over the morning…
Mother is dead now too, and her death, still fresh and ungrieved
also hovers

What am I to make of the absence?
parents who consumed so much of my energy –
emotional energy, for sure –

Suddenly, they are gone
and the silence echoes
bouncing off the chamber
where my guilt lies

Was I ever enough?
I thought about walking away
So many times…

But how could I?
One dependent
one abusive
both declaring love

I am not infantile
not rendered immobile
but my heart does falter

If either ghost is a touchstone
it is a measure of progress
a beacon of survival

I wish them both well
and infinite peace
and well, I also wish them gone

It is the relief that comes with their passing
that gives me pause….
am I really that cold-hearted?

No, not cold-hearted
just worn out
and longing to breathe

But ghosts linger
spirit infiltrating
generational layers

and I hear my father’s voice
in my grown son’s compassion –
a side he seldom could convey

and I see my mother’s resiliency
in a granddaughter’s determination

and I know now what the grief is…
the failure to recognize the gifts
amid the constant suffering

Even in war their are blessings
and I’ve forgotten to stop fighting
still hold my breath, waiting
for the fallout

Maybe the ghosts remain
as a reminder

that I survived.

(Written for Holly Troy’s writing prompt: Everyday Ghosts, which invites us to breathe in a prompt (the quotation) and write without pause for 5, 10, 15 minutes.)