Tag: Love

Narcissus and Echo

A tragic flaw
does not always a hero make.

She thought it did –
despite her beauty,
despite the Zeus’ who pursued her;
she set her sights on the unattainable.

Was it self-degradation or the sting
of a jilted spouse that tarnished her –
either way she lost her voice,
her autonomy shattered.

He tolerated her –
to a point – let her fawn
perversely intrigued,
no doubt flattered,
by her willingness to cloy.

Love was not in his DNA –
he lacked the missing component
so wrapt in his own drama;
he had no empathy –
no capacity for compassion.

Was it Nemesis, or
did they just reap what they’d sewn –
for theirs was a tragedy of Greek proportions –

the more distant he grew
the more she desired him
like a flower, too delicate to grasp

the less she demanded for herself
the less visible she was to him –
meaningless words lost on deaf ears

Sadly, theirs is a common tale –
though mythical in its telling, the patterns
repeat – love continues to elude.

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(Pretty sure you can guess today’s prompt.  Hope you enjoyed.)

 

 

Plateaus

The quest for love
an uphill climb,
the footholds
loose and failing

Scrapes heal, and
hearts yearning
begin again, forget
the falls, aspire

Unconditional love
a dizzying height,
soulmates and
pre-destination

Goals for romantics,
by my heart reaches
for a memory, a return
to the beginning

When kisses warm
and embraces strong
conveyed desirability,
love’s reverence a peak

much steeper to attain
when age, in its folly
lusts after a youth’s game,
time a cruel intervener.

Premonition

A mother wakes moments
before her baby’s cry, or
reaches with loving arms
just as her toddler stumbles.

Call it instinct, or premonition.

A sister calls in timely fashion
was feeling a little concerned,
or arrives with tea just when
a break is exactly what’s needed.

Call it instinct, or premonition.

A daughter rushes to
her mother’s side , senses
the unanswered calls
are more than busyness.

Call it instinct, or premonition.

Then, why when he cheated –
flaunted his courtships
with self-righteous bravado –
did I miss all the signs?

Denial negates instinct,
negates premonition.

(The Daily Post prompt is premonition.)

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.

Off-Track

Met him on the way to tomorrow,
pitched a tent on his front lawn,
both ignoring impermanence.

How is it the heart’s drumming
blots out the soundness of mind,
negates former promises to self?

The weather changed and with it
sentiments cooled, tempers heated,
a tempest ensued, she packed up

hitched a ride on a passing train
headed in the wrong direction,
her heart still a discordant drum.

I am Listening, Child

Child of mine,
what rage is this
that sets you against
a younger brother?

What discontent stirs
so deeply within that
you would lash out
at me, your mother?

Let us sit a moment,
and let me, with tenderness
listen, for your anger masks
pain, and I am not so far
removed from childhood
to recognize that tone.

If I have wronged you,
speak, I need to hear it;
if peers are pressuring,
or bullying, or you feel
betrayed, lay it here
in my hands, and I will
comfort you, and offer
what wisdom I have.

Your well-being is sacred
to me; let me hold you –
you’re not too old;  linger
here in my embrace until
the tears come, and the storm
passes; I will hear your fears,
frustrations, and disappointments,
and together we will figure it out.

Child of mine,
I am here for you,
no matter the reason,
your pain is my pain,
talk to me; I am listening.

(Image: confessionsofanadoptiveparent.com)

 

Mothers and Daughters

A child hides
tricks her mother
into believing she is lost;
This is not a game, Mother says,
panic still coursing through veins,
visions of abduction blinding reason.

Mother knows
what six-year-olds cannot:
that simple outings can turn –
unexpected loitering around corners,
the certainty of menace; she is wide-awake
cautious, protective of innocence in her charge.

Where was my mother,
she wonders, when I wandered away,
younger even than this one, when unattended
I roamed the neighbourhood, left to my own devices,
did she not know about danger, about shadows lurking,
and how did she not feel the tug of fear for a child’s loss?

Cannot remember
a time when she felt anything
but mature, responsible, forgot
she was a child, seldom felt alone
and yet was she too not vulnerable –
ponders the conditions of parental love

She’s a grandmother now
watches as another generation
of mother and daughter negotiate
the parameters of independence,
feels the same lurch of terror for
the precariousness of youth

eyes the preciousness
of childlike wonder with appreciation,
recognizes that one cannot bear responsiblity
for the endurance of such an elusive quality
that in all things, loss gives over to rebirth
and in the end, reverence settles back in.

(Photographer:  Sylvie Salewski)