Love – Page 23 – One Woman's Quest

Is Daddy Dead?

Tucks her granddaughter in,
gazes into wide blue eyes,
flashes back to another girl –
now grown – apple cheeks,
and an unruly thicket of hair.

Nostalgia is shattered as
the child smiles back, lips
betraying a trace of another –
once father – whose absence
clouds the old woman’s heart.

She holds the child closer,
reassuring her undying love,
cannot not shake the echo
of words spoken only that day:
Kayla’s daddy always picks her up.

Told the teacher her dad is dead;
a reasonable conclusion for a
young mind unable to articulate
the questions in her heart: why
his name is only ever whispered.

Tries to draw his picture, talks
of missing his cuddles, surely,
cannot remember a man who
left before she was two – the
grandmother prays silently.

What will they say when she asks?
Niceties about how he wasn’t ready?
Leave her to believe she is somehow
lacking, unlovable, when in truth
it is he who is incapable of loving.

Chases women like cotton candy,
three or four a day, cannot help
himself, an internet-driven obsession,
uses his daughter’s picture as bait –
perhaps she is right, her father is dead.

In Communion Prevails

Confront intrusion
head on, but know
that it comes with
a single focus, and
not from the sleep
of complacency.

Investigate when
it awakens you,
but be aware that
armed with the
element of surprise
it will overcome you,

tie you up in knots,
render you helpless,
oppressed, mute;
the vulnerability you
fight to protect, now
your only strength.

Fragility relying on
resourcefulness will
counterattack, take
appropriate measures,
stumble, falter, miss
at first, but in the end

conquer the invader,
reaching out for help
humbled enough to
admit dependency,
eyes open to solutions,
compassion awakening.

Isolation is disruption’s
ally; shared experience
unmasks the threat,
tears open its cover,
unites purpose, and
in communion prevails.

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.

Move Me to Understanding

Fear repositions viewpoints –
two stories become the divide
desperately seeking renewal.

Dwelling in the past – decrepit
shambles hidden behind drooping
facades – uncovers slimy residue.

The heart is vastly accommodating
replicating passages – retreating –
is personal abundance adequate?

Sighting ignorance, we are moved –
comprehend eternal restoration,
available in every up and down.

Extra-ordinary applications allow
glimpses of under-story – glean
undercurrents, like muses – reveal.

Lovers imbibe, cause concern,
deflect rather than confront,
opt for derision over appeasement.

Withdraw, glimpse vulnerability,
forgive differences in preference to
domestic bliss – marital dance.

Angels Watch Over Me

A letter came today –
an old-fashioned,
hand addressed,
post delivered,
greeting.

It’s the second
in two weeks –
simple messages
of encouragement,
heartfelt.

It’s from the same
angel that everyday
texts me a message –
a positive missive,
uplifting.

A letter came today,
and I felt ten years old,
special, remembered –
humbled by a simple act,
blessed.

A friend came by today,
had a rare day off –
thought of me –
offered her services,
selflessly.

Her confidence buoying,
we ventured out – pedi’s
then lunch – her quiet
offer of an elbow,
reassuring.

We talked about life –
grandchildren, husbands,
the state of the world,
and I felt normal,
alive.

A friend came by today –
and I was a kid again,
arm-in-arm with her bestie,
spontaneous and free,
cherished.

I Need You

What is wrong with me –
too tired to argue, finding
argument in every utterance,
wanting peace, contrarily
lashing out without reason?

Is it the effort to untangle
my mind from the jungle
of sleep that leaves me
shattered, head-throbbing,
overly protective/defensive?

Your words are assailants –
bullets piercing my already
inflamed cerebrum – I recoil,
(this is not passivity) too spent
to quibble with your fallacies.

Maybe it’s frustration following
moments of equilibrium, in which
I aspire to normalcy, make plans,
set goals, am body-slammed
into reality, deflated once again.

I am building walls, shunning
interaction – heart aching, soul
despaired, I threaten congeniality,
fall apart – am sorry, and not
sorry – angry, righteously.

If I had words, I would praise
your loyalty, thank patience,
extol virtue – but I am too weary –
the formulation and expression
of ideas buried deeply within.

What is wrong with me is
the constraints of my current
disability – smothering sensibility,
crushing potential – dismembered
complacency, gutted propriety –

I am raw, festering, cringing
remnant, psychically flailing,
resisting daemonic, magnetic
impulse to disintegrate, surrender
to nothingness – cease to exist.

Forgo your platitudes, search
my eyes for truth – find the light
that flickers there – soft sorrow,
clutching onto hope – a lifeline –
and hold fast with your love.

Celebrate With Me, Love

We’ve set our sights on exotic locals;
imagined breathtaking shores; success
a sun-kissed cruise across the ocean:
effortless indulgence catering desires.

Cornered by adversity, we’ve sailed on,
tabled our dreams, re-examined goals,
argued over pronouncements; tensed,
forgone celebration, awaited reprieve.

You focus on the destination, denial
your fortress; whilst I take a stand,
grab an oar; proclaim merit in moments
fumble attempts to acquiesce – love you.

Sanctuary is not found in distraction:
uninvited invades: suffering assured;
ours is to embrace, appreciate, cherish
the gift of togetherness; joyous union.

The Red Box

“I am sending you a red box,”
the voice says in my dream
(a dream within a dream, really).
“Will you be there to receive it?”

An image of a lipstick-red, life-sized,
shiny red box dances in my head.
“I will!” I say, wondering who would
send me such an extravagant gift.

“Will you be coming, too?”
I add quickly, remembering manners.
I am asleep, if you recall, have no idea
who I am speaking to: a poor connection.

“Do you know who I am?” asks caller.
“Yes, of course!” I respond, not actually
knowing at all, trying to be polite.
“Looking forward to it.” Am I?

“You don’t sound surprised.”
“Surprised and delighted!” I assure,
falsely – in this semi-consciousness,
sensibility has not yet set in.

Only when I disconnect, do I panic.
Some distant memory surfaces,
a vague recollection of indiscretion –
have I invited danger into my house?

Now, I am awake – faculties firing,
heart still beating, curious/ alert.
What could this mean, this
dream within a dream?

Look to where my mind went –
larger than life expectations,
when no such detail was revealed –
was the panic just as unwarranted?

Am I subconsciously mocking:
commenting on the instability
of thought processes, in this
altered state of health?

I ponder meaning, wonder at
the significance of red boxes,
when my husband delivers –
a small, red patterned box.

“I won this for you,” he says.
Three beaded necklaces inside.
I thank him, dismissively, rapt
in my mystery, inattentive –

I’m sending you a red box;
was the message, will you be
present to receive it? – Oh God!
The pieces fall in place.

Presence alone heals
weakening connections,
honest communication,
with expectations aside.

Distraction, fear, anxiety
are the undermining factors
that rape relationships
turn us from the actual gift.

I am awake, but dreaming
suspended between fantasies
of promising futures, and insults
from the past – selfish indulgence.

Marriage is the red box,
in its ever altered form –
offering endless gifts if
only we’d receive it.

On Growing Old

Comfort is where we’ve settled,
a well-appointed existence
with commodities on the side.

I dawdle with grandchildren
casting pink thread for slugs
ignoring the sludge in my veins

while he wrestles with fallen
leaves and closing the pool
and readying for the cold ahead.

Even now, there is no security
no locks to protect against invasion;
we live a permanent transience.

When complacency is threatened
we steel ourselves, steadying
against the pull of anxiousness

telling ourselves it’s all expected
we’ve known all along that life
is tenuous, control a fallacy.

Current upsets prove hollow
and we, precariously plodding,
hover once again at the edges.

Disability’s Dilemnas

Clutter defines my surroundings:
accumulation intended to simplify
only complicates, suffocates.

I am roommate, burden, dependent
confined to a singular existence
no longer lover, wife, companion.

While I lament the past –
ghosts of horrors and indecencies –
he drinks to forget lost dreams.

We have vowed to mend the cracks
carefully secured our footing
and yet our foundations rots.

Is it our over-active need to please
or the cold civility of our interactions
that causes us to withdraw?

My mind drowns me with shoulds
that my body can’t possibly fulfill,
guilt flooding my conscience.

How do we reconcile this distance
imposed by so much tragedy,
right the impotency of loss?

Life rolls on and I with it
humour and meditated calm
wrangling doubt and criticism.

He wears the projections
of my dissatisfaction: unresolved
remnants of old wounds resurfaced.

I can no longer ignore my needs
and reel at the mounting imbalance
grasping for sustenance and equilibrium.

Pulling away, I stubbornly proclaim
self-reliance, hindering progress
endangering self for dubious promises.

These life-altered eyes perceiving
only disappointing, unpalatable options
grasp for an end to this perpetual ache.

I am lost, disoriented, tired
communication clouded by fear
I hardly understand myself.

There is no solid footing on
a voyage as rocky as ours,
no answers to allay uncertainty.

Now is not a time for walls,
tenderness alone will guard our hearts
and patience lighten the way.

Category: Love