Tag: healing

Preposterous Business of Balance

I have tried to be pragmatic,
to adopt a religious perspective,
even found potential in support,
driven myself to make peace
be a model for my family,
a yet, no amount of contriving
can help me get over
the incest thing.

Dirty secrets
define our family
support ugly cliques
fearful of helpful outsiders
questioning probability
of untainted providers
dubious of alliances –
a sense of humour,
our only strategy –
we united psychologically
divorced ourselves from evils
projected into outer circles
confined to chaos

If I married my paranoia
to a more thoughtful version
of self, would that create
a calming union?
could it be that we are born
with checks and balances,
and is it even legit
to presuppose that balance
is achievable, and what about
partners – don’t they bring
their own amount of excitable
energy to the mix, and
how then is equilibrium
supported?

(Image: smashinghub.com)

Dreamers

While babes slumber,
calm, unconscious,
dreamers manifest

Goddess power –
pray for their ill,
harness a creator

an ancient dwelling
(ignore the presence
of trios – ascension

a slow plod) – choose
to honour the arrival
of beauty’s essence

the light of healing,
creativity expressed,
illuminators, artists

Grace encompassing
compassion, nocturnal
inspiration honouring

the aged, the ailing,
all beloveds, respect
for this blessed life.

(Image: Pinterest)

Application Submitted

Eager, I am, but limited,
somehow stuck in the past,
revisiting old disruptions –
as unmanageable as before –
Why do I seek validation there?

Vow to write a solution –
end up re-committing –
am I growing extra skin?
naiveté blocks me –
am fascinated with fame

Want to believe I am magical,
possess gifts that inspire, but
I am no more than a circus act,
possess the skills to mesmerize
only the young, uneducated

lack the resilience to adhere
to protocols, abide rules –
destined to repeat mistakes,
easily persuaded to take on
the guise of others – no matter

how poor the fit – will don
unsupported risks, expose
insecurities – for sufficient
flattery – have no boundaries
to counter this need to belong

I am principled, but socially
awkward, have prayed to
a higher power, proposed
promotion – need approval
to make this fractured life work.

(Image: bellapetite.com)

 

Teach Her Well

(Poem inspired by previous post:  Choosing Self Love )

A locked door
a screaming sister
a mother in despair

a child rejected,
scorned, neglected
blames herself

carries the cross
of her mother’s burden
through passing years

bears responsiblity
for a husband’ poor
choices; bleeds guilt

is still the child,
wounded, insecure,
her needs abandoned

desperation motivates
her thrust for control,
to orchestrate harmony

cannot see the fallacy
disappointments repeating
loathes perceived inadequacy

needs someone to unlock
the door, quiet the yelling,
hold her through her fears

teach her that in compassion
is detachment, that she is
worthwhile, and deserving

begin a legacy of self-love,
initiate a path to healing,
release these lifelong tethers.

 

Thwarted

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:  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.

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)

 

 

 

 

Dialogue

Road behind is collapsing
remain upbeat, continue

a trail of childhood tears
practice giving, don’t falter

the past a faulty messenger
focus on beauty, facing forward

memories storm, threaten
Keep travelling, let go of concern

fears, like locusts, plague
work hard, be positive

anger rumbles, grows wings
be at peace, future brings promise

pain, ignorant of time, persists
rest awhile, open to possibility

the path is burning, consuming
passion seeks an outlet, a voice

broken parts craving protection
surrender to catharsis of creativity

(Image:  cafepress.com)

When We Meet in Heaven, Dad

I picture it: a convention –
where like minds congregate,
learn from one another,
aspire to betterment

A conference of healing,
dedicated to those newly
passing on, like limbo,
only educational.

Imagine my surprise, then
should you be there, Dad –
you who’ve never before
attended my performances

I’ll attempt to stifle the
discomfort, suppress doubt,
cherish the moment,
but I know you too well

will catch the gist of
your duplicity, easily
recognizing self-serving
motivations, feel the rage –

intact despite the body’s demise –
intent on tracking you down
one final confrontation
to elaborate on the deplorablity

of your manipulative ways,
your brick-wall tactics,
the cruelty of absenting
yourself from a child’s needs

would check the registry –
surely they have a registry
in Heaven – will not find
your name listed there

In an aha moment, think
to find you under an alias –
I’d be right – stand at the door
of your chamber, inflated

righteousness ready to
denounce you for eternity,
feel the strike of bolt-like
revelation, decades of wrath

disintegrating into sorrow,
sudden clarity washing over me,
as you open the door, hesitant
to receive me, I’ll declare:

“Dad, it’s okay – I accept you
just the way you are;  I just
don’t want any more
distance between us!”

(Image: dorotheacarney.com)

Bundled Memories

I carry my past
in a long, white sack –
canvas like a sailor’s –
as if my life depends on it…

or a laundress toting
bundles, tied with string,
promises of toil and
recompense to come.

My contents are not
sustainable, though,
only sorry tales,
entangled woes
mutated into plastic
figurines, more comical
than menacing,
torment born of
pretense and shame.

I am eager to set
this burden down,
loosen the binds,
but self-assurance
and management skills
are just out of reach
a level above me

preoccupied with
organizing
appearances,
disinterested
in healing
old hag’s haunts.

Common sense says
let go, but I’m not sure
I can handle the repercussions,
fear there is more to suffer
for their release

can’t be sure I won’t be
feeding these frailties
to a bigger beast –
the stuff of nightmares –

once exposed will become
bait for a lascivious predator
who toys with ruffled emotion,
a vulture for vulnerability.

Is it not better to cast the
damned so far as to be
forgotten; to be free
for once and all, board
a bus on out of here
find comfort in masses
following a common drum?

My husband has license
to drive a bus, if I take
my chances, could we
prevail together?

How I wish I knew
the protocols of social
etiquette when involving
baggage, am so afraid of
igniting rage in anyone else
but me.

(Image:  www.ebay.co.uk)

Appearances

Testing social waters –
that cherished state of interaction –
prone to revealing too much, learning

have been homebound, studying life
without a facilitator, now attempting to
penetrate invisibility – see me now?

gathering the salvageable bits –
minimal fragments of a once whole woman –
reaching out, reconnecting – mixed receptions

admittedly much has passed me by –
no amount of homework can undo the stain
of my cluelessness, I am slow, needing a driver

as achievement focused as ever –
would go back to work – my heart space –
bursting with eloquence, unleashing enlightenment

on adolescent ears:  tales of survival,
recovery from the depths of loss, except it seems
I am still growing, the few tidbits I’ve gleaned unusable

must be selective about my memories –
am met with disregard, my story, like a gunshot,
causes others to duck, not listen, lack of scarring

a disappointment for those expecting grand
acts of heroism; scars command respect – visual
metaphors telling a linear story – my journey, marked

neither by timelines nor terminal projections –
origins of disease unknown – defies medical
knowledge, research lacking – I am estranged

who dares to question beyond the trembling
exterior, behold the opportunity that has blessed me,
witness the gift of joy that comes with re-evaluation

when character overcomes strife,
and simplicity replaces frenetic ambition –
the outcomes of enrolment in this life class.

(Image: www.huffingtonpost.com)