Division, the determining factor
in their relationship – who can understand the dynamics of blood ties?
Cracked images suggest
a camaraderie, at least once upon a time, and who recalls the cause of the rift?
Fixated on the anger
distance a monument to the breach, till one dies and the absence is cemented
(Image my own)
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
Am odd, I agree
but what is real?
Addiction affects us all
My loyalty, intrinsically
tied to abuse, know only chaos.
(Image my own)
No big box here
our shops line up in historic rows
eau-de-ferme earthen fresh
Our spires reminders
that values are simple and life blessed.
We wait at the station, Mother and I,
one final stop for her – painless she prays; I busied at bedside – prolonged goodbye – memories and regrets filling our days.
“We live too long,” she wearily proclaims
“Why must suffering linger till the end?” I plea and bargain, call angelic names, yet the will to survive refuses to bend.
The urgency builds as my time dwindles;
must I leave her in this compromised state? She rallies and stands on wobbly spindles dismisses fears – has accepted her fate.
Some destinations are clearly defined –
Death is a train whose schedule’s unkind.
first appeared January 2019. Image my own) The Last Train
Mother said: “Look after your sister!”
What she meant was: Take this burden off my shoulders; I am no longer able to cope.
Father said: “Do as I say, not as I do!”
What he meant was: I don’t have the wherewithal to deal with my own problems, so don’t bring me yours.
Sister said: “Be a good auntie!”
What she meant was: I am too young to be a mother, and you are much more responsible, so take care of my consequences.
So I ran away to build my own life:
met a man and married, bought a house, had children, and dreamed of a future that would erase the past… but
Husband said: “If you really loved me,
you’d lose weight, be less effusive, control your temper, and be more supportive of my choices.”
What he meant was:
I’m going to grind you so far into the ground and then I’m going to cheat and cheat and you’ll have nothing left inside to do anything about it.
And without a word, I left.
What I meant was: I am a real person. with needs of my own, and despite my faults or limitations, I deserve better
(This is an edited version of an older poem by the same name, December 2018. Image my own)
Resting, I pray for peace
but it is temporary guilt intervenes
What if I withdraw
commit to solitude keep my tongue?
I need angel guidance
this mothering heart infectious, requires wisdom My past is soiled I am stinking, tainted Can forgiveness help?
Pick me up,
give me strength I am lacking courage
Teach me moderation
modesty to guide my words I only want to help…
But this vile thirst
this self-deprecation reigns me in
What value have I
in a world stricken by need my offering mere morsels?
I pray for peace
I pray for grace Forgiveness offers a hand.
(Image my own).
There is light in unknowns –
at least I project it there – caught between the current ashen landscape and the achings of a solitary childhood…
I like to think faith guides me
but she is muted like the gardens of my dreams, more ethereal than palpable and I need concrete have waited too long for that train
of certainty to carry me away…
course it never comes, there is no easy just a slow, steady plodding: a pace that age has settled on; so I turn to inner landscapes, imagination remembering colour…and yes, light.
(Image my own creation)
The river will not be pushed
nor outrun – still I try shattered pieces of my efforts littering her banks…
Illness teaches that I cannot
flow with or keep up, but…
openness counts…the river
brings and she takes away
I am witness, beneficiary,
a voice, for her bounty, her power
Life is the river. It brings opportunity-
I partake or not; it moves on.
No use building walls; better to stand
at the edge with heart and mind willing.
Nuances of nostalgia –
jagged edges succumbing to unsuspecting cubes nourishment moving and opening I distract We grapple under construction Meaning percolates This is life these bits and pieces of a resurrection dragons and time machines ticket stubs scattered.
, this was a found poem – the product of collective responses to a prompt. Image my own.) Weaving Bits and Pieces
not in circles but in spirals
continual movement marking progress
mocks such optimism regret unavoidable
none assuaging ambition incomplete inevitable
Can I stop this spinning
rescue the untidy threads weave an acceptable ending?
(Image my own)