acknowledgement
Sunday, May 22, 2022
9:48 PM
you don’t want to know my story.
it’s nothing special, far from
fantastic, anything but absolutely
astounding abounding to almost
nothing.
Nonexistant. no matter what I
meticulously or miraculously
materialized, everything emulated
an equivalence of ether, lightweight
and insubstantial.
Inconvenience. I imagine I irritate,
infuriate and incapacitate to
the point of practically propagating
petty pictures known as
dreams.
Determined. despite deafening
derogatory demands defaming me,
challenged to create confidently condensing
criminal conscious thoughts that threaten
me.
Me. I. Self. I am more than that
which I have been led to believe.
I create my world, and I say no more.
I vigorously, firmly, enthusiastically, raucously
Reclaim, Repossess, Recover, Regain, Rescue
me.
here is me.
Hurricane Isabel
Sunday, May 22, 2022
9:48 PM
Can you hear me daddy?
Do your ears burn red each time
a curse shrieks your name,
a dying phoenix screaming
its pain and suffering into the universe,
waiting patiently to be
reborn into a fierce dragon
roaring through the skies
out for blood and carnage
from wrongs trespassed on your flesh and blood.
Your lies
scrape their nails against my chalkboard heart,
screeching all you’ve done over and over
again and again
I hear myself ask the howling winds
why me, why us, why them.
Can you feel it daddy?
This pain you caused that wraps its ice cold
claws around my heart constricting my ribs, pulling
me down into a dark abyss I thought was a sea
of your love but turned out to be
Nothing.
Cold water rushes into my lungs
but can’t touch the fire burning
deep inside my soul,
scalding everything that makes me
sane and whole and pure.
I melt away piece by piece, flesh ripping, tearing;
muscles sore, achy, fighting
this fire of hate and doubt
and self-loathing.
I’m drowning in it.
Can you see me daddy?
Do I haunt your dreams,
a specter of the past
lurking in your deepest thoughts
dressed in black with dead eyes and lips
that whisper a name that’s not yours
with the disdain of a million lies.
This storm brews blue-black and fierce
blocking the rays of sun that used to flow
willingly from a smile.
Flashing forked tongues
set plains and forests
ablaze with a ferocity
that could topple empires,
a tornado of hate and despair
and anguish.
Can you even remember me? Daddy?
The little girl with bright brown eyes
and shiny brown hair who
looks like you who
lapped up every word you breathed
as if it were gospel truth
sung by a choir on Sunday morning with excitement and vigor,
the priest exclaiming about love and truth and light.
Empty memories
with a silhouette meant to be you
at birthdays, holidays with one half of family,
a little girl wondering how strangers who look like
her celebrate joys of life, wondering
if they know who she is;
a small speck on
the other side of the world.
Can you tell me something?
Where can I go from here?
How can I get over this hurt?
Why can’t I get through this storm
You left.
Swirling, twirling, edges sharp and wet
bitterness seeping through the fangs of lightning.
Calm in the center,
a brown eyed girl in the eye of the
Hurricane.
Always smiling, tall and strong
wearing your lies like armor against
the seas and winds.
A woman-child who has your looks and
temperament, who is a tempest
of sadness.
Daddies are supposed to protect their daughters.
You are nothing but a stranger who shares my eyes.
memoir of a poor kid
Sunday, May 22, 2022
9:49 PM
I knew to never ask. From a young age, I never asked.
The answer would probably be yes, but I understood the cost.
I watched friends play sports, I had no talent anyway. The physical cost money, and so did the out-of-town trips and gear.
The answer would have been yes, but I knew the cost.
I declined an invitation to play flute for my high school orchestra because marching band was a pre-requisite, and the band uniform cost way too much for just one year of use. Fundraising opportunities and family members offered to sponsor me. But I was already economical in all my decisions. I deemed it an unnecessary waste of money.
The answer was yes. But I didn’t agree with the cost.
I watched classmates go on school sponsored educational trips. You know the ones: D.C., New York, Spain, Germany, France. At the time I had figured I would always have a chance to see those places when I was older.
The answer was yes, but. The but had too great of a cost.
I never complained, I never asked, and I never let on how disappointed I felt. I couldn’t bear to see the struggle, the depravation, the cost it would take to make that yes a reality.
The answer was almost always yes.
Grandma
Sunday, May 22, 2022
9:49 PM
Wind Song. Angels.
Papasan chair.
Gardening. Glasses.
Broken glasses.
Falls. Bruises.
Bright blue irises.
Iris flowers. Lilies.
Sun.
Warmth. Cold hard truth.
Funny sayings.
Honyock. Knucklehead.
Not so funny sayings.
Love. Never out loud.
An unspoken truth.
Smiles. Frowns.
Laughter.
Books. So many books.
Music boxes.
Sickness. Health.
Strength.
Human fragility. Stubbornness.
Love.
But never out loud.
The Last Day
Sunday, May 22, 2022
9:49 PM
November 4th, 2020 was the longest night of my life. I received “the call,” you know the one. Everyone dreads “the call” hoping it never comes but knowing it will eventually. “The call” that someone you love isn’t coming home.
Her name is Betty, or is it “was” now? She is the only grandparent I ever knew, and the matriarch of my family. We had just celebrated her 96th birthday in June. I can’t quite remember how we celebrated, but I always went to see her. Not just on her birthday, but other days too. She helped raised me, it was the least I could do.
I had such a good morning with her, considering her health. I went over to help my Aunt reposition her in bed, my son and daughter were playing down the hall in the living room, my dog running up and down the hallway, being a menace as usual. The sun was bright, it must have still been wet outside because there was a sparkling aura coming in through the window, the way it only does when it has just rained. Her cheeks were bright, odd for her, she had been pale with blueish lips for the last two weeks. But her face was pink, and her eyes were bright blue. It could have been the nightgown she was wearing, floral pink. She always looked so good in pink.
My son popped in, showed her a toy. “Hi Parker!” she said, a grand smile on her face. She loved him so, and he loved to talk to her. He just started being able to call her “Nana.” He popped back out to grab a new toy and came back in and told her all about it. Then he ran back out to play with sissy. My dog ran in and sniffed her hand, and then turned parallel to the bedside to get some pets. She ran off again.
My Aunt and I repositioned her on her side. I leaned down to eye level, so she could read my lips. She had been just about deaf for years, adept at reading lips for as long as I can remember. For a long time, that’s how I thought people listened to each other, so I catch myself doing it every once in a while.
I ask her if she’s comfortable. “Oh, I’m just looking at the dog,” she points behind me. The dog had snuck back in and gotten up into the chair behind me. She didn’t mind, she was enjoying the company.
I said, “Okay, but are you comfortable?”
“Oh yes,” she said. My son came in one last time, and we all spent a little time with her.
“Anyone who’s anyone is in here right now, I guess,” my Aunt laughed. My Mom passed by the door to her room. It was quite a sight, I’m sure. I wish now I had a picture of it. Maybe someday, I can commission a painting of it.
Seasons
Sunday, May 22, 2022
9:49 PM
A young child grew
older, taller, a little wider.
Chest blooming pink and purple
Blossoms never ready, but there
Crying on a rainy day.
Older, taller, heavy peony
blossoms in early summer.
A boy stops to feel
The smooth, pink flesh.
The petals drop, winter comes.
Older, no taller, buds
Return with spring.
A man whispers sweet lies
To buds just blooming.
The flower opens.
Blooming, the flower drops
seeds, and begins to wilt.
The man disappears.
The flower withers,
But doesn’t die.
Seeds bloom and thrive.
Several gardeners come,
try to fix the flower.
None succeed, give it up
as a lost cause.
The flower dies,
A season of rest.
The sprouts wait.
They know better than the flower,
which reblooms greater than before.
Comments