Sister was a hurricane –
destruction her path
Tried to calm, encourage
but her core was damaged
Try to reach her now,
across death’s abyss
understand before
her legacy swallows me.
Sister was a hurricane –
destruction her path
Tried to calm, encourage
but her core was damaged
Try to reach her now,
across death’s abyss
understand before
her legacy swallows me.
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)
The proverbial can has exploded –
transparency of our deceit now lies
like swarms of glass snakes writhing
at our feet – litany of hissing truths
Bent on keeping innocence alive,
I strategically attempt avoidance,
point to wealth, abundance, nurture
focus … the onslaught continues.
Slivers of slime, maggot-like hoards
mobilize – a sea of protestation,
I, overwhelmed by filth and disgust
encroaching on my sanity, helpless.
Familiarity colours the devastation –
have witnessed it before, watched
as my mother bit into the same
serpent-defiled apple…turned away.
There are no barriers to block out
the vile beasts, no refuge for broken
souls, whose lives, twisted in denial,
have mercilessly fallen to betrayal.
(Fallen From Grace was written in January, 2016. Image my own)
(This is an edited version of an earlier poem from 2016. Image my own)
Who can measure
the cost of war?
How deep destruction
scars the human soul?
I see the trench lines
carved on fathers’ faces
the ghostly pallor
of mothers’ fear –
only the children sing
unaware, bending to fate
with graciousness;
grief’s shrapnel well buried
(Image my own. Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson)
I lied.
The initial seed of disappointment has fermented,
and in the absence of confrontation, grown roots
written sorrowful chapters
conclusion: unworthiness
Why couldn’t I just have said:
I don’t understand
this makes me unhappy?
Where did I learn that prevarication protects
that I alone am responsible for emotions
that I do not matter?
Decades later
I still cannot uproot the weed
the lie remains.
(Image my own)
Tired of same old endings
in which hopes are slaughtered
and tragedy and insanity win.
Raised by the bottle, learned
to set standards low –
still afraid of heights –
have fallen as the ground
beneath my aspirations crumbled –
a certainly under alcohol’s rule.
Tired of same old endings
in which self is battered by indifference
and ego loses the battle for control.
Mother’s denial a coping mechanism
negating children’s need, obliterating
safety, disregarding long-term damage;
even in older years, when we tried
to get her out, were powerless against
his manipulation, his eternal imprinting.
Tired of same old endings
in which the heroine, resources spent
succumbs to the madness, suicides.
Want to believe in a future, greener,
hopeful, in which relationships
are fulfilling, and life goals are
supported; in which encouragement
is not the ploy of deviousness, and
personal best is rewarded, sustained.
Tired of same old endings
haunting my dreaming hours
unforgotten in waking dreams.
(Tired of Same Old Endings first appeared here June of 2018.
Edited for this submission. Linking up with Reena’s Xploration
Challenge: insanity, and Eugi’s Weekly Prompt: unforgotten.
Image my own.)
Call myself liberated
but this modern woman’s
shadow arches backwards
finds its reflection in legacies
How can I forgive my own failings
when their tale takes root in
oppression and abuses long passed?
Liberated a misnomer.
(Image my own.)
I drink the backwash
of hollowed out promises
Is it me, invites indifference
expectations so low, self
gowned in layered shame?
How do I learn otherwise
break this toxic pattern
if not in pursuit of love?
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
And when the fatal breath expels
and all is quiet, will you remember me
Bright as an orange bloom
with my words locked inside
A poem inspiring eternity
or will my essence shrivel
Be lost – like dust particles
exposed in afternoon sunbeams?
(Image my own.)
Father, as immoveable
as a mountain
taught us to orchestrate
submontane routes
Circumnavigating
his rocky moods
bestowed upon us
a fear of masculinity
Resilience instilled
the necessity of mining
gold from darkness:
still digging.
(Sketch mine)