Carefully we construct
security for offspring,
add luxuries to entertain,
accommodate growth
with additions, play host
to revolving-door friends.
And yet, we are graded
on performance – met
or unmet expectations –
help up against a stack
of other super parents –
silhouettes of perfection.
Still, we celebrate growing
aspirations, sprouting family,
ignore the slanders, and ease
into age with a tad of kook,
or wild inappropriateness –
all expressions of our love.
Pride hounds
sneaky, invasive
ugly determination
guards a conception
family, grandchildren,
a portrait of comfort
disregards treacherous
likeness to poisonous
histories, past loathing
offender venomous
untrustworthy, slithers
hunts, eludes detection
fleeing only abandons
face culprit, wrestle
pummel, decapitate
denial, disembowel
falsehoods, render
the serpent impotent
peace endures when
life examined marries
humility and gratitude
(Image: Pinterest)
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.
(Image: alwayslonliness.blogspot.com)
(I penned the following poem on the occasion of my son and daughter-in law’s recent wedding celebration. To read more about the ceremony, visit : “Blessing of Interracial Union” )
A son is sweetness and strength and mystery;
here is my son – a gentle soul, kind-hearted
and generous – wasn’t he just a boy, only four
asking his father for work so he could buy me
a pair of earrings: Suns, he said, like you, Mom.
How did that boy, once so caring that he’d save
his treats to share with older sisters, sisters
who would turn around and snub him – he
never seemed to care, accepted it with a shrug
tried again – how is it he is now a man, married?
Always the loyal friend, is he, with an ear for
the downtrodden, offering a hand; I’ve watched
him struggle for independence, study hard,
labour tirelessly, he is a man of vision, a man
with a heart big enough to hold all his dreams.
I want it all, he once told me, eyes focused
on a future only he could see – I read joy
in his countenance, felt pride swelling, knew
this day would come, knew the moment he
first spoke the name Warsan he’d found love.
Warsan, truly good news, precious as the sunrise
her spirit bright, her smile contagious, she is
brilliance, and thoughtfulness, and I could not
have chosen better: a child I can love as my own
a woman our family embraces with open arms
What wisdom can I offer these two, joined
together in love, driven by a commitment
to one another, to family, to shared vision?
Be your best selves, I want to say, approach
anger with tenderness, and pain with warmth
Hold fast to one another in a world that will
challenge you, and know that I will be there
behind you, a rock to your storm, and that
others who have gathered here will do the same
And know, above all, that we celebrate you
Marriage is a vessel, a beginning, an opportunity
It is a bowl in which to place your dreams and hopes
it is a coming together of values, histories, a blending
Let it always be your soft place to land – today
is a new beginning; may this blessing continue.
Have been unearthing the boxes
of my subconscious, clearing ill-
cast tales, intent on an end goal –
restitution at very least, but
my sister, no stomach for process,
wants to suction up the guck –
impatient for a quick cleanse –
plugs the workings:Â therapy,
a finicky machine, falters,
water oozes between cracks;
we are flooded by mutual
wounds, personal emoting
ankle-deep in truths neither
can bear, waders, all thoughts
of sanctity dissolving, and I
espy cobwebs forming, corners
once cleansed – dysfunction’s
mockery of hope – reminder
that when roots are rotten,
scars are reluctant to heal.
How else would you define us but a zoo:
this ragged attempt to appear socially fit?
I drag my children with me, expectations
formed from still life exhibits, picture –
perfect cameos of happy lives, poised
as any good television family might…
Who hasn’t had a rough ride, disembarked
and vowed never to repeat sins? Â Hold on
to what you have kids, I warn; be wary of
life: Â it’s what I’ve learned –Â tried to change
the tableau, inject creativity into freeze
frames;Â snared in webs of my weaving,
like the black widow entrapping my prey,
instinct releasing venom, plots spiralling
out of control;Â am prepared to wipe clean
the past, but stumble, lose grip, shamed
beg my daughters to look away, too late,
tension mounts, threaten to consume us
our dreams, the source of our imaginations
and I listen to the screams, helpless, until
one child takes up the cry, offers herself,
as I would have once, forces me to sit by,
worry my only companion, while she sinks
deeper into the hell of this artificially caged
confine; our connection lost – unprepared
am I, with all the wrong resources, clinging
to damnable passivity, alone, wretched,
guilt-ridden, afraid for generations unborn –
and as I turn away, in despair, I catch sight
of her, my child, revelling in her story, vital –
no crisis – just a brilliant young woman,
unbound by the restraints of this zoo.
(Image:Â obutecodanet.ig.com.br)
British roots define
particular brand of
peculiarity – shared
claustrophobia –
fear of closeness;
need to lie down,
separate myself,
am married now
childless dreams
dust; I am cook,
cleaner – project
sparkle where dirt
still lingers, losing
rationality, not quite
catching on; want
to send flowers,
honour passings
but soul wounds,
unbandaged, gape –
hunger to be free.
(Image:Â www.apa.org)
Motoring through duality,
straining, in the middle –
socialized, yet reticent –
My heart is overflowing,
like an unwatched sink
falling apart, too much
Driving, the past’s rain
blurring any joy; feel
dirty, taut, losing control
Harm vanishes, comes
back around; hosting
good intentions, rank;
Progression entirely
defined by vulnerability
smothering celebration
Towed along by sweetness
of children, dining on their
innocence banishes despair.
Weighted down – I eat rocks
to anchor this restlessness –
unable to exit through any door,
trying to relocate self-assessment
to a sunnier place, contemplating
where I’d like to be; have checked
in, but no room is ready – shove it
all back underground – darkness
defining my horizons, my sister and I
meet here at the edge of denial, both
seeking calmer waters – she swims,
I crave a shower – we are haunted
in our sleep – shadows clouding our
dreams – projections of mermaid
possibilities, and electric blue skies;
I am gaining some ground, sifting
through basements, tossing old
ideals, cynically reminiscing, she
strokes through the debris of family
storms, ignores the rubbish polluting
her pool, maintains motion, while I
remain submerged, try to work out
a relationship with our father, long
since deceased, still present, find
solid ground – have opened the contents
of our stored horror, no choice but to carry
on, have been an actor in our staged
drama, no fame though to add acclaim,
only misguided endings, fragile audiences
and a sister who follows a different light.
(Image: Â wallpapersblogspot.com)
I cannot bear the responsibility
for my brother’s pain, separated
as he was from my mother, raised
in his own kind of hell, estranged;
could not save him from himself
even if I tied him to me, carried
him by my side, bore his shame,
supported him by finding work.
I would just be trying to resurrect
old dreams, choosing to follow
already trodden paths, repeating
patterns of partnering with failure;
stir up memories of abuse, relive
the discomfort, castigate myself
anew for not asserting propriety,
contemplate revisiting the old.
No, I am not my brother’s keeper;
cannot right what has been lost;
only in looking forward can we
hope to bridge our familial ties.
(Image: Â quotesgram.com)
One Woman's Quest 