Is it naiveté
this nurturing impulse?
I am a product of genetics
a force dictating flaws
Railing against depression
trending towards light
I exert positivity
borrow bravery
Am odd, I agree
but what is real?
Addiction affects us all
violates progress
My loyalty, intrinsically
tied to abuse, know only chaos.
(Image my own)
His cadence is shallow –
these are familiar waters
He’ll swear the addiction
saves him from madness
Ignore the wrenching
pain in my heart…
leave to find his next fix,
another page in misery’s tome.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson.
Image my own)
Have you seen her –
the child we lost,
the one who lost herself?
born to a sister
breasts not yet ripe
for motherhood’s call
a passenger
on a perilous ride,
sweetness eclipsed
by a cacophony
of raised voices
the wails of women
helplessly trapped
a smothering drama;
how easily she escaped
slipped from our clutches
found comfort in the streets
preferred coldness of strangers
to the raging fires at home;
lost her to the lure of parties,
an elixir for the empty places,
found her once amongst
the debris of discarded needles
and the haze of sexual reek
the golden halo of youth
now matted clumps of shame
her beauty sunken in shadows
we’d taught her well, it seems –
the art of submission, how to
betray the self, embrace defeat
tried to pick her up, create
a milieu of normalcy, establish
homelike roots, but shams
do not last and she ran again
the echo of her absence a hole
ringing in our hearts, we are
guilt-ridden, apologetic, fear
the power of our inadequacy;
try to forget, justify, cringe
for the child we lost,
the one that got away,
the one that lost herself.
(Submitting this for Ragtag Community’s daily prompt: needle. Computer is going into the shop so I may be MIA for bit. Missing was first penned in October of 2017.
The mistress, meticulously groomed
glows a sun-kissed bronze shimmery
invitation, promising seductive
sensations of pleasure and release.
The husband, tense, overworked,
emotionally overwrought
heeds the call like a sailor
following the lure of sirens.
The flirtation begins in innocence,
he sips from her splendour at a party,
tastes her bittersweetness and
feels himself losing all control.
She is a master, a pupeteer
mesmerizing him with her smooth,
easy ways – lulling him into compliance
and alone; for private indulgence.
The wife, tired, lies awake
the empty space beside her
echoing the hollow place within-
she no longer holds his desire.
Spent and reeking from his illicit encounter,
the husband stumbles into bed,
reassuringly reaching for his wife in the dark.
Unresponsive, she feigns sleep.
They’ll not speak of it tomorrow-
awake and re-engage in the routine they call life.
Not tonight, he’ll tell himself,
Not tonight, she’ll hope.
The mistress sits smugly in waiting,
a never ending supply of liquid gold,
bottled with a promise – subliminally
conditioned to bring personal gain.
(Gains and Losses first appeared here in December of 2014. As a child of alcoholism, the Christmas season is always a reminder of the pain. Some gains are just not worth the cost. If you or someone you love has a problem with addiction, please make it a resolution to seek help. There is so much more to life.)
(Written for Ronovan Writes Haiku Challenge: poison & past)
Never marry a man
who keeps an elephant
as a pet – trust me, I know.
No matter how slick
his explanations, please note:
elephants are not justification
for lapsed commitments, nor
hollow promises – relationships
can’t bear the costly weight of upkeep
no amount of toiling, cooking, or
maternal influence can detract
from the needs of animal outweighing
all other priorities – and don’t expect
sympathy from an elephant keeper’s
mother, she is in on the dupe, prayed
to offload this burden – compassion
fades swiftly in the face of giant-sized
demands, and elephants require feeding
If there’s an elephant in the equation,
I’d say cut the ties and the discourse –
no doubt another fool is waiting in the wings.
(Image: www.theapicalview.com)
I am no Titania,
whose mind poisoned
by Puck’s subterfuge,
finds your asinine
nature alluring.
You once slaughtered
all rational instincts,
beheaded my sensibility,
paraded my gored heart
like a trophy oozing blood
Thought to seduce me
anew, so confidant in
your primal charms,
my carnal libido, but no
flowery fog deludes me
you are not a guileless
Bottom, but an incubus
maliciously motivated,
a destroyer of souls,
conquest a side sport…
So willingly we entered
that midnight garden
of lust – me, innocent
as Helena, you a serpent
in the plot, more twisted
than Puck’s foiled plan;
I fear I have not removed
myself far enough from
that enchanted dystopia,
am grasping to reach
something stable, sane…
a solid security that defies
magical notions, grounds
me in respectability, a return
to a banality that precludes you.
(Image: classicmoviestills.com)
Fear drives me backwards, spinning
childhood tales, plunging into frigid
waters of isolation, desolation; falling
into the unknown; a mission to heal
the ruptures, out of season, past and
present colliding, frozen in time –
I am in need of extraction, need to
believe in flight of eagles – innocence’s
idol – need to initiate possibility; find
a match to melt icy deception – so
much betrayal – my sun is going down;
I stand at the water’s edge, ready to
launch; innocence and ignorance
co-conspirators of my youth; am
fighting an immature battle, out of
sync, hesitant, prefer avoidance to
combativeness, played one too many
addict’s game, felt the brunt of relapse
am powerless, emotionally responsible,
bear the burden of care, unable to release
control, swallowed by childhood’s chasm.
(Image from: www.egilpaulsen.com)
The gambler puts in fifty-cents
expects hundreds in return;
a simple flick of the wrist,
and abundance will be his.
I feel like a slot machine,
paying dues for minimal input.
Tells himself there is more
to be had, if luck runs his way;
walks away from the richness
of family, joy of friendships –
I’d be a slot machine for him,
if only love equated money.
dreams of possibilities beyond
his daily reach, a fast track plan;
fortune is calling, palm itching
just one more roll of the die –
The die has been cast here;
no longer willing to gamble.
one more momentous win,
a promise to share the wealth;
what more could any woman want
from a man – half an empty dream?
Took a chance, myself once,
thought he was my windfall –
guess, in the end, all gamblers lose.
My father’s eyes were the ocean,
hypnotizing, alluring, and I desired
to know their depth, their mysteries,
certain that true love dwelt there.
Volcanic was his temperament,
a constant fiery, churning nature,
that both awed and frightened –
danger always lurking: precarious.
He was the mountain, and we; his
offspring cowering in his shadows,
smothered by his darkness, only
dreaming of light: tortured souls.
Impotent in the face of his angst,
sought reparation elsewhere, looked
for his soul in the heart of others,
longed for healing from his disease.
Found eyes like his, mannerisms
that mimicked, aspired to love,
encountered unspoken truths:
learned of addiction’s demons.
Ran from one man to another,
constantly confronting same
wall of denial, dance of anger,
insurmountable debilitation.
I am my mother’s daughter,
congenial to a fault, driven
to please, pleased to submit,
an alcoholic’s dream mate.
Like my mother, I long for
something indescribable –
certainly unattainable – believe
that I am fated, unlovable.
Fallen, as I have, as she had,
into the mesmerizing blue
of his ocean, craving to know
the love that surely dwells there.
One Woman's Quest 