I AM better.
It took years to purge the hurt, the pain
Remove the stain
Release what remained
Of the deep humiliation.
White trash label from parents of friends
Grandfather who’d not make amends
Father, mean drunk, nights, weekends
Relatives who’d deny and defend
Because I spoke up.
Banged the gong.
Told the tale ~ told the truth.
“Every family has secrets.”
“They’re no better than us.”
“You’re no better than us, little miss high and mighty.”
But I was.
Sometimes there is better or worse.
And all you have to do is choose.
I AM better.
*Thanks to Sunday Scribblings for the prompt ~ raw
*And to Writer’s Island for secret
I considered photographing the image reflected in my screen, but opted for an in-progress shot of one of my paintings so as not to garner a higher than PG rating. :-)
About to jump into the shower as
The muse struck
I ran, naked, to the keyboard
And wrote the five syllable line
That would otherwise have dissipated with the hot steam.
While sitting there,
My sunlit torso reflected back at me in the screen, bare.
“It is beautiful,” I thought.
The breasts are slack,
The neck, weather-worn,
Décolletage, mottled with spots.
But it is utterly feminine and firm and strong
And safe within lies the heart of a lion
A big, bold, beautiful lion
Who, in her nakedness, really needs a shower.
*I wrote this poem hours before my right thumb/wrist reconstruction
I’ve demanded much of you
Abused, neglected, forced you to do
More than you were intended to
More than a pair of hands should go through.
Heft and cut and carry and carve.
Knead, paint, write, fold, twist apart
Pushing then pulling beyond the limit
Until, cartilage gone, the pain~ can’t inhibit.
So you need repair.
Your lesser partner’s already been flayed.
It’s your turn to join the brigade
Into the cold room, stainless displayed
Give up bone, grist, tendon waylaid
To the surgeons deft blade.
You will be strong again.
“Before we can find peace among nations, we have to find peace inside that small nation which is our own being.”
Despite the war waging in her bones,
She is at peace within her own being.
Hugging her au lait with both hands, tight
She wonders if she has the right
To be content at this “late stage,”
Knowing full well that she will not age.
Is happiness allowed to those
Whose end time everybody knows?
(Or at least assumes)
If she was proof, and proof she was
That death’s imminence really does
Inspire one to settle accounts
To create closure, and achieve what amounts
To a simple acceptance of this fact:
We all die.
Then be happy, she decides.
And she is.
She finds joy in every day that’s left.
Soothes those who feel bereft.
Pays her bills,
And writes her wills.
(Both living and otherwise)
In the here, in the now~
She kisses and hugs whenever inspired.
She drinks good wine, she naps when tired.
She tells her loved ones how she feels.
Enjoys, when possible, really good meals.
She takes her meds and walks every day.
Paints, reads, writes, and laughs and plays.
She won’t be able to.
Because we all die,
And then begin anew.