Tag: childhood

A Poem in Three Voices

Page three! Father would say
whenever she opened mouth
to speak – inevitable tale waiting

I just want you to hear me,
I remember feeling, to know
that my words have meaning

You get all your needs met;
it’s why I work so hard, now
don’t bother me, get along… 

She learned to hold things in,
to refrain from long passages,
practiced needing no one.

Dear diary, why does everyone
hate me? What have I done,
and why do I feel so alone …?

You hide away in that room
of yours, ignoring your mother
and me; what’s wrong with you?

 She shrugs, picks up her purse
and heads out the door, school
is almost finished, then freedom.

Left home today; so happy to be
away; hope my roommates like
me, hope I don’t ruin it for us. 

Just called to see if you’re okay,
your mother and I worry; let
us know if you need anything…

But she’d stop needing long ago –
shut down in the formative years,
when rejection defined esteem.

(Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is to write a poem in three voices.)

napo2018button1

Snapdragons

Snapdragons transport me
back to father’s gardens –
the pleasure of pinching
delicate flower mouths

forbidden as I was, tiny
feet banished from tiers
of ordered colours, how
he worshipped those rows

hours spent on knees,
as if in prayer, attention
lavished on nurturing
growth while I shrivelled

at the sidelines, longed
to dig beside him, sully
my hands and share
a passion, ignorant of

an inner drive to weed
out imperfections, felt
only walls of separation,
the coldness of perfection

and in my wilful way,
rebelled against taboos,
tiptoed through the soil
and pinched snapdragons.

 

Colouring

Remember when lines meant challenge
and colouring was not confined to
parameters, but an invitation
to explore, and days spent
contemplating invited
song, and nothing
really mattered
except the
moment?

There is a place
balanced between
the bustle of doing and
the edge of non-existence
where fantasy beckons,
where aged minds, content
with past accomplishments
come to rest, to ponder –

who once again recognize
that lines hold no significance,
that colours know no limits,
that music uplifts the mind,
and that memories are places of
exploration, and the moment
is all we ever have.

 

 

A Toddler’s Tears

When it comes to caring,
I’m a pro – engaged,
wholehearted, well…
except that my toddler
self joins in, and no matter

how proper I try to act –
she is such a fetching child,
bright, inquisitive – she
distracts me from purpose,
gets me off-track, and I hate

being behind, and anxiety
acts up, and the subject of my
focus departs, leaves me solo,
abandoned like the baby,
memories of saturated diapers

unattended to, and the raw
scratch of tears unanswered,
and I’m not trained to care for
inner children, essentially
overlooked, innocence tainted.

It’s Not Pretty

I drag my marriage
through childhood,
past my mother’s critiques
and sister’s insanity,
expose the woman
my father longed to be,
strip them all down
and parade them
full monty,
our sordidness
splayed across the floor
like shepherd’s pie
smashed into linoleum –
a mess of madness
and emotion and
cranked out fables:
denial served up
as acceptable fare.

I am obsessed –
driven by compulsion
to cleanse the sticky,
rotting muck oozing
through the cracks
of our faulty foundation,
need to sanitize floorboards,
unearth explanations
salvage what thread
of sensibility remains
before this orgy
of dysfunction
derails progress
drags my childhood
through marriage.

Koolaid

Yellow was the colour
of their house, green
the lawn upon which
we played – the house
of boys where fun lived.

Ours was two-storey,
red brick with black,
the colour of our air,
privacy fences blocking
outsiders, girls within

Never heard a voice raised
there, was served only milk
and cookies in the kitchen;
could not understand why
Mom said don’t go inside

but they had mini cars, and
trucks with working parts,
better than our dolls, and I
wished I could be a boy –
less complicated it seemed

And I wished my mother
played tennis with the ladies
and watched from the kitchen
as children played baseball
offered Koolaid in the heat.

Had a friend there, a boy
so kind and gentle, taught me
respect, protected from harm,
let me be me – was it love
I felt, at such a tender age?

We moved away, though,
left that sunshine house
behind, lost touch with
friendship, never again
to connect with neighbours

Everyone has something
to hide, Mom said, implying
ours was the better devil,
drank her Koolaid, too old
now to undo childhood’s lies.

(Image: suburbman.tumblr.com)

Unbridled

Tender as a fledgling, angelic
curls confrontational, she bears
emotions with courage, femininity
unkempt, pridefully engages
creatures – pests to most – believes

in messengers, blessed with manna,
heaven-sent; draws her strength
from within, a daring soul, plunges
deep, pursues wholeness – cherished
vulnerability, unpolished, loyal

mimics nature, her innocence persuasive,
fear and protectiveness retreat, helpless
in face of the adventures that call to her;
she is submerged, infiltrating enchantment,
unruly – does not measure progress by scars

unaware of wounding, responds only
to the magical sense of play – a limbo –
instinctively trusting, sweet, views the
world from perches treetop high, wills
herself to fly with dragonfly wings.

In time, innocence will be intercepted
by practicality: Fate’s swift hand cutting
her down, she will be victim, react to
adversity, learn to mother, the wildness
of her youth chiseled by expectations

She will learn to wade through swamps,
acknowledge pain and her own inadequacy,
overcome and face life anew, the memory
of a freer time, a more wily self, fleeting –
the child in her more myth than memory.

(Photo from Pinterest, attributed to:
Joanne Quirante Escober)

Questing

Quiet!  the oft heard command
of childhood echoes inwardly

as if our home was a library
our privileges reduced to silent

study – passes given for good
behaviour – suppressed spirits

voiceless observers of a soap
played out before an audience

of five, bystanders really, forced
to watch, unable to comprehend

the brutal acts, the cruelty borne,
praying for a final curtain, even

our own – I shattered then, self
defined by so many fragments:

the curly-haired poppet, whose
smile delighted, entertained,

the responsible, no-nonsense
intellect, cold-hearted, defensive

the healer, psychologist, family
counselor, with an ear for all

the stable, well-adjusted son
dependable, always on hand

the closet worrier, introspective
self-harming, clothed in shame

wanted to be best, outperform
the others, find my own spotlight

needed to latch on to education
carve a place for myself, could not

concentrate, the guidance received
disconcerting, unreliable, no parent

to secure the necessities, to fuel
my ambition, only a poorly casted

performance robbing me of purpose,
of identity, the courage to proceed

lost myself in the hiding places
intimidated by a disgruntled father

misled by an emotionally absent
mother – a survivor, perhaps, and

yet I search, crave a knowing –
an understanding of essential self

not a glittery, star-crusted version,
but a well-worn edition, creative

inspiring, practical: a vessel
in which to hold life’s abundance.

(Image: radiantselfcare.com)

 

 

 

 

Nested

Nestled in with childhood truths –
second-hand, missing perspective –
nursing a creeping creativity:
insignificant clarity expanding
measurably, hurried.

Once social, now retreating
papered over failure, have fallen
frigid waves infiltrating, overtaking
chronically pained, over and over
contemplating flight, freedom

voiceless, expressionless, flat
even revelation muted, unmoving
boundaries, discussed, protective
currently crumbling…underestimated
the struggle, the pervasiveness

have considered a military approach
strident restrictions to nullify passions
but I am a weaver, open to uncovering
blessings in failure, employed in soaring,
grounded, yet questing, unsettled

disease is not a repellent for the mind,
objects conjure movement, creatures
undoubtedly defensive, renewal motivated
I am dank, moist, lacking burning passion
in this explosive personal nest.

A Woman I Never Knew

Much planning involved in duplicity,
when absence of feminine is intent –

no amount of research can release
her, buried in a home within a home.

Empty out existing observations,
imposed interpretations – education

only served to dismay us further –
all erasable.  Forensic investigation

required to grasp the inner workings,
only seasoned visitors have caught

wind of – witnesses (mother/father);
all we children knew was her name;

a moniker that invoked turmoil, yet
she, pregnant with hope, anticipation

would make her presence known –
a grand performance – she did not

belong; we shunned her, doubted
her veracity, convinced her host

was manipulative, depraved – had
no concept of acceptance – chose

separation – s/he pushed me out;
not that I was ever welcomed –

a child of this woman within a man,
whose obsession consumed us,

consumed my innocence, toyed
with my journey to self-discovery,

distorted images of beauty rooted
in the hovering pall of her presence/

absence; tried to escape, seek help,
create a semblance of normalcy, but

am haunted by the woman, whose
destiny, never achieved, now lags

behind me, feeding my frailty; wish
I had found the words, openness,

had dared to know her, to have stood
beside the she Dad was meant to be.

(Image:  lgbrpcv.org)