This ache,
this searching
how rawly
I feel your absence
Selfishly ignoring
your heart
reaching out
trying to connect
a lifetime of circling
without closing the gap
Ironic
illusion
of distance
This ache,
this searching
how rawly
I feel your absence
Selfishly ignoring
your heart
reaching out
trying to connect
a lifetime of circling
without closing the gap
Ironic
illusion
of distance
So much I want to say,
yet the oppression of opposition
stomps heavily on my airways
cutting off the flow
Daughter of a trans father
mother contemplating MAiD –
embroiled in controversy,
I see only injustice
Cannot fathom the hatred
the railing against books
and glamour, and science,
misappropriation of christianity
How am I supposed to grieve;
take up arms for those I love,
when I am silenced before I speak
judgments cast without a thought?
If I could have a word,
if anyone would listen
I would share, perhaps insight
into the lives of secrets held
Describe how hearts wilt
beneath cruelty of suppression
how torn apart we become
ignorance voiding authenticity
I would tell you of the horrors
that dwelt within our homes
the fear of discovery, of rejection
how ugly it all felt….until
Education offered explanation
and in that opening
we saw potential to climb out
from our shadowy existence
embrace a life in which our love
is neither tainted nor deviant
and tell me please, as I try to listen
how such hopefulness is sin, after all.
(Image my own)
Endless turmoil
Mother’s tears
crusting over
Focus on children
strength to carry on
future a hopeful light
Who can measure loss
justify the tragedy?
Generations will toil
Damage always outweighs
rationale for war…
Do not apologize –
the fault lies not with you
Love, while lauded for its cures,
is not always compensation
for a life of turmoil –
I know you loved her
Watched as you let your dreams slide
heart wringing with your own sorrow
There was just something about her
men lined up to grasp… to make her
What? Theirs? Happy?
It was not to be
She barely possessed herself..
Even in death, I reach for her
try to define the ruse,
but her essence is elusive
No, you are not at fault…
for she was never really there.
(Mirage first appeared April, 2021. Image mine)
Measured in spoonfuls
progress imperceptible
Still feel the angst of
no-time-to-breathe lifestyle
pressured from within
to get-it-done
spend unavailable resources
ruminating solutions
push against the walls
with little to show
surrender to impotency
and wait for the next surge.
Division, the determining factor
in their relationship –
who can understand
the dynamics of blood ties?
Cracked images suggest
a camaraderie, at least
once upon a time, and who
recalls the cause of the rift?
Fixated on the anger
distance a monument
to the breach, till one dies
and the absence is cemented
(Image my own)
How can I capture
the essence of loss?
Sunshine scant
darkness falling
No image/words
stark enough
to serve as allegory
for evil taking lives.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
We wait at the station, Mother and I,
one final stop for her – painless she prays;
I busied at bedside – prolonged goodbye –
memories and regrets filling our days.
“We live too long,” she wearily proclaims
“Why must suffering linger till the end?”
I plea and bargain, call angelic names,
yet the will to survive refuses to bend.
The urgency builds as my time dwindles;
must I leave her in this compromised state?
She rallies and stands on wobbly spindles
dismisses fears – has accepted her fate.
Some destinations are clearly defined –
Death is a train whose schedule’s unkind.
(The Last Train first appeared January 2019. Image my own)
Who can measure
the cost of war?
How deep destruction
scars the human soul?
I see the trench lines
carved on fathers’ faces
the ghostly pallor
of mothers’ fear –
only the children sing
unaware, bending to fate
with graciousness;
grief’s shrapnel well buried
(Image my own. Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson)
“What happens after death?”
she asked one Sunday,
her long, thin body stretched
weakly across the settee,
her cousin balancing
his dinner plate at her feet.
Sundays they came together,
all the family, for Grandmother’s
dinners; the warm waft of fresh-
baked pies, the clank of dishes,
voices raised over old farm table.
He shrugged; it was always a concern –
she’d been frail from birth, this girl
he loved, two years younger, but
in every way his peer – said nothing.
“Let’s make a pact!” she blurted
“The first to die will leave a sign.”
“Grandpa’s bells!” They shook on it
and then, with a satisfied grin
she succumbed to sleep.
A more sombre clan gathered mid-week
eyes red and faces pale with the shock of loss –
no smells of warmth to greet them,
just cold platters prepared by church ladies
Slumped bodies, heads leaning close,
sipped tea on the place where she’d lain
that last gathering – no sound of children’s
laughter, the hole too hard to bear.
And when the sound came: metal
clanging on metal, ringing a joyous
clamour, she was the first to see –
Grandpa’s bells stirring – her sign!
She knew then he’d be waiting,
told me so before that last breath
and as I watched her go, I swear
I could hear the far off ringing of bells.
(The Pact was originally published September, 2018. Edited here. Image my own)