When Scarsdale failed,
she resorted to corsets,
and girdles – trussed up
like a teabag –
sucked in her bits,
hair a touch too red,
nails forever chipping –
Dad’s disapproval a sour note –
watched as Mom steeped
in resentment, waited
for the boiling point.
(This quadrille is written for dVerse, hosted tonight by Mish, with the topic of steep. I am also linking up to Ragtag Community – note; and Fandango’s – resort.)
When their hot tongues lie,
I cry bitter milk –
time can rip at friendly water,
blow him from my sea,
though his shot a show –
am so blue,
a bare want,
in those lies dressed.
(Poem inspired by the offerings of Magnetic Poetry online.)
Framed perspectives –
I see shelter, a friend
whose branches shield;
you see obstruction,
prefer sunshine to shade –
our differences, like windows,
portioned previews
of a life segmented.
(My weekly challenge this week is to consider the symbolism of windows. Â Won’t you join us?)
As Mother counts her last days, and I open my heart to forgiveness, a daughter calls, reaming me out for wrong-doings – January is not cold enough to freeze tempers – family coals burn and shatter, and all we can pray for is metamorphosis. Â Soon, I will return to warmer temperatures, attempting to elude this frigid climate, save the scorching for the sun.
Hearts have seasons too –
I lumber through chilled air,
crave a touch of warmth.
(A haibun for dVerse, hosted by Kim tonight. Â I am also submitting this for Ragtag Community’s lumber, Fandango’s metamorphosis, and Manic Mondays 3 Way Prompt, shattered.)
“My children have come home to watch me die,”
she tells her doctor, repeats to me, #5, when I arrive.
“You leave the world the same you came in,” Doc said,
as if that makes sense, as if that offers comfort.
“We don’t want to see you suffer anymore,” I offer.
She agrees, tired of the pain. Â 92 and nothing but pain.
It’s not death that she fears – she’s ready –
it’s the dying – not knowing how it will happen.
“Will you be with me? When the time comes.”
I will. Â Just as I did with a sister, two cousins,
father, an aunt, and countless others.
“Angel of Death,” a nurse called me once.
I shrugged: “Would you want to die alone?”
Death, I do know, is like birth,
in that the timing is unpredictable.
So, together, we’ll wait –
biding our time, talking about the present,
reflecting on the past, wondering what lies ahead.
Not all transitions, I’ve learned, are alike.
(I’ve returned home to be at my mother’s side, although, as the poem indicates, she may survive the current setback. Â I’m linking this up to Manic Mondays 3 way prompt: reflection, and my own weekly challenge: transition.)
Mother said: “Look after your sister!”
What she meant was:Â Take these
burdens off my shoulders, I am
no longer able to cope.
Father said: “Do as I say, not as I do!”
What he meant was:Â I don’t have
the wherewithal to deal with my own
problems, so don’t bring me yours.
Sister said: Â “Be a good auntie!”
What she meant was:Â I am too
young to be a mother, and you are so
much more responsible, please take on
the consequences of my poor choices.
So I ran away to build my own life.
Met a man and married, bought a house,
had children and hopes and dreams
for a future that would erase the past.
Husband said: “If you really loved me
you’d try harder to lose weight, be less
effusive in public, control your temper,
and be more supportive of my choices.
What he meant was: Â I’m going to grind
you so far into the ground and then I’m
going to cheat and cheat and you’ll have
nothing left inside to do anything about it.
And without a word, I left, and
what I meant was:Â I am a real person
with needs and faults and limitations
and it’s about time I honour me.
He recalls we were gorgeous,
pleased me like an egg – fast
Why lie to men about
what blow must skin cry?
We are black from mist above moan,
I bare my drive as pink,
sit through summer of aching,
show my gown sweet…
though never did sleep.
(Fridays are magnetic poetry. Â Find it online at magnetic poetry.com. Â Love it if you’d join me.)
Promises mouthed
form no solid basis for
love – only mistrust.
(Written for RonovanWrites Haiku Challenge: foot/mouth. Image from personal collection.)
Even lamplight cannot penetrate
the obliteration of blizzard white –
the icy absence between us.
Red was the colour of our passion,
now red is the colour of this box
words spoken in confinement
condensation blurring sensibility –
the muffled sound of ringing,
too cold, too frozen in disbelief
to hang up,
move on,
seek warmth.
(Inspired by the image supplied by Willow Poetry for her weekly challenge: What Do You See?)
Naughty thrilled her –
lacked inhibitions toward elicit,
tantalized by promised ‘nice’
Imagined blood red petals
strewn atop steamy suds,
champagne flutes and
intoxicating entanglements.
Fantasies never ran to
infested walls crumbling
in barren captivity –
his version of naughty
turned her blood to ice
nothing about the scenario ‘nice’.
(Tonight is the last Open Link night at the dVerse pub for 2018, hosted by Grace. Â I am submitted this poem, inspired by the prompts of Manic Mondays 3 Way Prompt, and Twenty Four’s 50 word Thursday. Â Image provided by Deb Whittam of Twenty Four.)
One Woman's Quest 