(Warning:Â trigger)
It wasn’t for want of terror –
inexplicable horror
caused me to quake
There was no one to hear –
a remote lair, boarded
ensured the perfect crime
Even in the aftermath –
self erased, movement
adrenalin automaton
Even then, no sound,
voice stifled by guilt
certainty blame was mine
Art of dissociation
keeps me now, surface
calm – shame numbed
The scream a silent
reverberation
tearing at my soul.
(For Ragtag Community’s daily prompt:Â scream.)
Gossamer
that thread,
that sparkle,
that vestige
of my youth
I try to hold on,
gnarly grip
no match for
her exuberance
Hope we reunite
next time around.
(Image from personal collection)
Men prefer a reserved lady,
Mother was quick to admonish,
ashamed of my hot temper,
the tear in mud-soaked stockings
the call that came from the boy’s mother.
But I was born with a fervid passion,
a sense of justice igniting a fire within –
Women need to stand up,
I lectured her, to declare our rights –
a concept that fell on closed ears.
She’d continue to take father’s abuse,
apologize for under-salted broth,
or too thick gravy, for lingering
too long in conversation at the market,
or letting us kids dare to raise our voices.
And I’d continue to clock any boy
who dared to say that girls can’t….
Neither of us able to reverse
the inequity we suffered.
(For Ragtag Community’s challenge: fervid; and Fandango’s, reverse.) Image from personal collection.
My memory of you –
distorted by childish exuberance –
distant and disinterested
Translated vacant eyes
through the lens of my needs
child that I was.
Failed to notice
the aura of defeat,
the battered heart
the robotic responses
masking unbelievable sorrow
missed it all
till death knocked
and I saw you anew –
adult lenses now fully secured.
wonder at the fortitude
that kept you upright,
the love that served us both.
No fault here –
on either side –
just a bittersweet understanding.
(Life, in retrospect, offers new revelations. Â Poem inspired by Reena’s Exploration challenge – image as prompt.)
Tyrannical, Â my father’s reign; the ensuing understanding of relationship dynamics twisted. Â Violence and threats peppered with “I love you”, as if one was synonymous with the other. Â I cowered with the rest, shame a heavy weight.
Oppression dictates
warped sense of love, intimate
nightmare – relearning.
(For Reena’s Exploration challenge #89. Â Relationships have been the theme of my dreams lately – thus the reversal to childhood.)
Elaborate, the tree forts
imagination envisions
Indifferent, the rationale
that overpowers inspiration
I balk, abandon hope,
build a wall instead,
forgetting…
Creativity is not linear,
tolerates input, planning,
some alternatives preferred.
(Featured image from personal collection. Â Doesn’t it just say: Â “Climb me!”? Â This image is a Live Oak, in Texas, and is available on various products at Society6.)
Formative years were more destruct
than construct; contradictions riddled
the foundation of our familial structure:
one man tyrannized five females while
in the news, women marched for equality;
called the likes of him a male chauvinist.
Aunt drove a forklift truck, looked like a man,
chalked one up for women’s liberation, didn’t
talk about her sexuality; shadow of illegality
hovering around her – no one dared to ask.
At nine, I questioned the fairness of being
born a girl in a man’s world, felt impassioned
by feminist cries, yet feared my mom would
leave the nest, abandon baking, domestics;
leave us to fend for ourselves – the warm waft
of fresh-baked goods greeting us each day, gone.
Watched my sisters flaunt their womanly ways
for virile young men who flocked to see bikini
clad bodies, ripe and tanned by the sun – who
was reducing whom to sex objects? And when
my mother’s family came to visit, why were the
men’s hands so invasive, their tongues equally
misplaced, and was this what women in the streets
were crying out against? I wanted to be free, explore
my future prospects – open road ahead – but Mother
said boys will be boys, and men don’t like smart
women, and better to drop out of school at sixteen,
get a secretarial job, and be ready when your prince
arrives – so I rebelled, cut my hair, flaunted my
intelligence, spoke up about inconsistencies,
such as why is a God a He, and why Aunt didn’t
ever date – did feminist mean celibate? and why
when women were so oppressed and men had
all the power, did my father wish he could be one?
Formative years more destruct than construct;
a deviate imprint tainting normalcy’s prospects.
(A 60’s Childhood first appeared here in September, 2016. Â My challenge this week is story. Â Click on the link to join in. Â Computer is currently in the shop – so I have set this post up in advance. Â Sorry if it takes me a bit to get back to you. Image from personal collection.)
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.)
Learned the art of survival
from father, a commando-
trained warrior, never able
to leave the battles behind
A sharp-shooter, whose
expert eye tracked our
every fault, with sniper
precision, shot us down.
Innocence has no place
when the enemy resides
within; when trigger lines
are camouflaged by wall-
to-wall carpets, and young
minds, craving exploration,
are imprisoned by acts of
terror; the only conclusion
survival’s impermanence –
hostility lurking in every
shadow, caution instilled
by the omnipotent legacy
of father. Tried to reach
him in the end, touch his
humanity; his shell-shocked
glaze paused for a moment,
he focused, broke through
the fury, seemed to remember
we were his daughters – was
that compassion lighting
his expression? Take cover,
he cried, get as far away as
you can, save yourselves, I
cannot sway my path, too
committed to this private war,
there is no mercy for me – but
you, you can be saved, save
your children. I turn and run
with all the certainty that this
is life and death and embrace
the little ones, praying to lift
them out of the ashes, give
them new life, but it seems
they learned the art of survival
from the daughter of a father,
conditioned to the state of war.
(Submitted for dVerse pub Open Link Night. This poem first appeared November 2016. Video is a reading by yours truly at an Open Mic night.)
She is listening,
watching, her mind
absorbing –
so many images,
emotions,
lacks the filters,
the context to frame
experience into rational
understanding –
guide her with patience;
treat her kindly.
One Woman's Quest 