Category Archives: thoughts
My mother left when I was three
I remember her at the front door
Surrounded by the winter coats
The National Geographic magazines on the shelf framed her;
Telling my father
She wouldn’t stay.
Her fear and determination
Echoed in my ears
As I looked through
Tousled hair, half awake-
He dies then.
I only realize that later.
You hide behind the fortress of your heart.
The face masks the lie.
You believed in forever;
Nervous fingers turn the golden sun.
Heart reaches out;
Longing for connection.
You would sacrifice much for love,
But they would risk nothing ;
Leave you in the cold to die alone.
Can life be so
The blood flows,
And heart beats against the chest.
Life seeks her own.
In the ploughman’s wake;
Only the strong survive.
The day they put Thomas Clarke’s body in the ground
Was the day she pulled the veil down.
They were young lovers:
He loved her voluptuous smile and russet hair
She loved his stories.
Married as soon as Thomas left school.
No laughter of children warmed their home.
No little knitted socks from gran.
And the stories stopped.
He grew bitter
She found guilt
And then the neighbours heard the yelling.
She would hide the bruises
Under long sleeves she would sew.
Men at the local pub
Would tell stories
Of young ladies that welcomed his
He imagined a smiling redhead.
And then one morning, in the barn
A cold body she found when looking
For the milk.
And then the funeral.
Of his absence.
Wishing to say something sincere
But truth silenced their voice.
The space marked a barrier.
She stood alone to stare at the earth
And the veil came down.
Thirty years later
When they found her
Sitting in the churchyard;
They peeled the veil away
To reveal a smile.
She had spoken before I started to listen.
Her eyes held me with their direct gaze.
She told me what I wanted to hear.
He loves you.”
But she cautioned,
“Don’t work so hard.
Take time for yourself.”
Strange that stranger’s words
Would move me so.
“You have a good heart.”
A parting posey and a secret message.
The meeting is a memory.
With a lingering impression
And the smell of heather.
Rushing from the warmth of my home to a cold car. Minus twenty-two with the wind chill. Ten minutes late for work. Time is always beating faster than the desired pace. My heart plays catch-up with the beat.
Sometimes, for whatever reason, I look up into the sky. Sometimes, for whatever reason, I have a moment beyond time. Maybe within it? A few moments of appreciation when even work must wait. The beat slows.
The day is just waking up, and the colour of the sky in contrast with the skyline makes me glad to be alive. When the snow arrives, the morning sky takes on a pastel hue; a contrast of cool blue and warm pink. An especially lucky morning is one that has seen Jack Frost sugar coat the trees with a crystallized gloss. As the sun rises out of the orange and pink warmth that it promises, the trees shimmer with a thousand rainbow hues. Each crystal echoing the sun’s light; a praise of Source.
If a morning like this was an orchestra. The sun would be a drum; the slow beat that reminds us of our mother’s heart. Life. The thousand lights dancing in the glow of the sun would be the mirth of the bow on a violin; perhaps the reverential pluck of a harp. Harmony, like individual life- affirming place and existence.
To witness a morning like this is to believe in magic; the spirit of goodness and giving that weaves through the season. The beauty of community. I will carry this feeling with me the rest of the day.
Posted in response to: http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/12/02/weekly-writing-challenge-snapshots/
It was there
Written in the
She chose to ignore it.
She subscribed to the constant beating of her heart;
The thump against her ears
In the quiet times.
At least with that echo
In the silence.
She could be certain of
She could touch,
Maybe even feel.
A distant hum; mother’s voice
That gave her hope.
3000 miles of separation
6 detached text messages
5 days of silence
4 glasses of wine
1 evening alone
Combine ingredients. Stand in front of mirror. Count the lines on your face; the places that curve when flat is heaven. Rage. Then make it better.
It’s the little bumps
When you are closer than ever to joy
That hurt the most.
When you can actually see your dream on the horizon-
And then the pall is thrown over.
The taunting voice of the second grade bully:
Telling you that you are ugly and
No one would ever want you.
Stupid for believing
That you might get what you want.
First love telling you
The truth about the weekend away.
A mother’s gentle voice
Suggesting that you
Forget your dreams,
And submit to the present reality.
New love telling you
Just this last time…
In the space between there and here
It was cast aside
For more important work.
And now I return
To the room I so
Carelessly tossed it.
Uncertain how to begin;