Fear, like a tarantula,
descends on me, lands
on my sense of responsibility
I am unhinged, panicked
think only of casting it off
repulsed by its ugliness
its unbearable horror
its unnatural weight
and then I remember
that terror can be illusory
and tarantulas are fragile too
and I control my impulse
recognize that it is threat
that activates attack,
relax into the situation and
let the intrusion crawl away.
Yellow was the colour
of their house, green
the lawn upon which
we played – the house
of boys where fun lived.
Ours was two-storey,
red brick with black,
the colour of our air,
privacy fences blocking
outsiders, girls within
Never heard a voice raised
there, was served only milk
and cookies in the kitchen;
could not understand why
Mom said don’t go inside
but they had mini cars, and
trucks with working parts,
better than our dolls, and I
wished I could be a boy –
less complicated it seemed
And I wished my mother
played tennis with the ladies
and watched from the kitchen
as children played baseball
offered Koolaid in the heat.
Had a friend there, a boy
so kind and gentle, taught me
respect, protected from harm,
let me be me – was it love
I felt, at such a tender age?
We moved away, though,
left that sunshine house
behind, lost touch with
friendship, never again
to connect with neighbours
Everyone has something
to hide, Mom said, implying
ours was the better devil,
drank her Koolaid, too old
now to undo childhood’s lies.
(Image: suburbman.tumblr.com)
Needs, you insolent, little
bastards – interfering
with my independence,
gnawing at these walls
Nasty, you are, and heartless –
pathetic, infantile, cowardly
what part of unwanted
do you not understand?
I am making a stand –
choosing to erect barricades –
a stronghold of invincibility –
quit circling the fortress
your endless chatter
annoying me to distraction –
I will have none of it –
will not tolerate vulnerability
I am strong, singular
do not need sympathy,
empathy, understanding,
nor acknowledgment
I am an island –
self-sufficient and proud –
and your insignificance is a blot
on my otherwise perfect landscape.
(Image: www.dreamstime.com)
(Poem inspired by previous post:Â 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.
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)
Point me towards the boards;
watch me improvise – calm
rehearsed, funny mastered,
catering to audiences a forte’,
command performances key
to locking out this perusing
soul’s wordless angst – will
unleash soliloquies, cleverly
unscripted quips to delight
well-attended audiences,
on queue hijinks, will not miss
a line, or quit the show, find
refuge in the wings. Spotlights
motivate me, trigger adrenaline;
save me from an interminable foe
that stalks behind the curtain
sneers at applause, assures me
ovation does not to me apply.
Malls possess a certain allure –
contentment-in-a-bag offerings,
an opportunity to escape reality,
except gossip travels in crowds
and I tend to shop for obligations,
will latch myself onto any drama
and take ownership – it’s small
town training:Â I am a passenger
on the responsibility rail – would
kill my own mother to gain lost
authority, be the person in the
know…lose these thoughts of
failure to the distress of disbelief
that we missed the signs, lacked
insight, could have been there for
someone more needy… Have you
seen me, browsing stories? Career
changers are good, fired up youth,
father’s foibles… Don’t be taken
aback, I can be officious, intentions
not misguided – just need to fix one
piece of brokenness to assure myself
all is not totally lost – this shattered
core, this fictional characterization.
How much simpler life would be
if I shopped like normal people,
found relief in mall discounts…
(Image: tropicalcyclocross.com)
Bought myself a big, old house
with a myriad of rooms; needed
it to accommodate all those I
wanted to please – it’s what I do.
Learned it living in a house full
of children – adults that were
children – do it to compensate
for never having been a child.
Raised my own family, bent
on making sure they had
their space, their autonomy,
they’re gone now, still can’t
quit – spend my days cleaning
up in the aftermath: so much
dirt to launder; need it to be
pristine so they’ll come back.
Bought this old house partially
furnished – remnants of lives
before me – the crumbs of past
denial hardened now, panicked
to imagine what petulance has
been drawn to their neglect,
becoming obsessed about the
infestation, erasing the past
confine myself to the main floor,
ignore the filth on walls – crayon
figures pleading for help – until
daylight reveals truth, and leaves
me no options but to toil harder –
cannot let these patterns repeat,
need to save the innocents –
this work is never done –Â refuse
to see that I am not responsible
for it all –Â project rage onto my
spouse (latest in a string of
targets) for the sin of taking
pleasure, when I cannot relax,
(everyone knows how to unwind
but me, Super Woman) feel the
compulsion to flee, but disability
allots me no recourse – thank
goodness for this big old house –
places to hide, be forgotten –
if it wasn’t for the old crone
who haunts my dreams, drags
me out of my spinning misery
forces me to extend myself,
meets me at the edge of calm
where tranquil waters soothe
my inner churning, and where
kindred spirits come to play,
and connections are real, and
I can roam freely, unattached,
until illness brings me back –
reminds me of my limitations –
that I have been eternally lost
in a house with many rooms
aimlessly wandering in hopes
or renewal, lost for so long
that I’ve forgotten how to let
go, and only in my dreams do
I find the freedom to walk away
and reclaim the life that awaits
(Image:Â bigoldhouses.blogspot.com)
Keep distance!
Inner child
intimate with abuse;
a sad comedian
spontaneity ploy
masking deadness –
major screwup –
God’s grace
unscathed
minus mishaps
hip movement
frozen scream
roads collide
life on periphery
repercussions
cognitive gears
breaking ice
encountering foes
reflexes delayed
safety intangible
borrowing time
health a trial
defeat conceded
relinquished control
Keep distance!
Inner child
driving the show.
Taking ownership of this mess
I call life, creates a priority of
care – a surrogate for the inner
sapling, not too motherly, just
accepting; to lead her past the
overpopulated vines of despair,
root out evil, restore the good –
a kindred spirit to ease her little
soul – no officious, insecure, put-
me-down parent, but dedicated,
motivational re-schooling, able
to fulfill needs, entertain, assist
in uncovering substance, insure
she has meaning to latch onto.
To help you find direction, Child,
I will tend to your needs, honour
the artistry of your growing mind –
a brilliance to nurture – encourage
flights of fancy: never fear pushing
boundaries of conventional thought  –
offer you strength of connection,
value your courage, prod hard work,
allow for wildness, questioning;
teach you not to quit before miracle
happens, demonstrate that life is
opportunity, Â that character will be
tested, and that  comfort can be
found in the spiritual – deliverance
is possible – above all to know that
you are loved, nurtured, valued and
together, through it all, we will prevail.
(Image from private collection)
One Woman's Quest 