Posts Tagged ‘Mother’

The color
of grape Kool-Aid;
purple with swirling blue.

Umbilical cord tight
around his neck,
he strangled
with every contraction.

Heart rate dropped
so perilously low,
a pediatrician was called
to be on hand…
Just-In-Case.

Pushing then swoosh
there he was,
my blue baby.

They removed
the cord from his neck,
and handed him to his father.
I stroked his face;
the same color as my nail polish.

Suction of fluid from lungs
then oxygen followed
until he grew pinker,
more human.
Still, a bloody little thing
always held by someone else.

I felt no sense of attachment.
Just crushing weight of responsibility;
knowing he was mine
completely,
at for least 18 years.

I didn’t want to get too close,
terrified by my year-old nephew’s
repeated clinical deaths.
I spent the night awake,
trying to devise ways
to make a break for it –
despite the pain.

Morning came
I was still there,
unable to figure out
how to flee into the darkness;
leave him to his father,
my mother…anyone
but me.

Then,
around the corner;
a clear acrylic bin.
I looked in –
my fatal error.
I never looked back again.

He was mine.
My child.
The one I’d waited for.
I loved his little turtle face,
strange mewling sounds,
his smell.

Through the years,
there were problems.
Bad lungs kept me afraid
that I’d lose
the only thing that mattered.

A sweet child,
beautiful, charming.
He always had that gift.

Then pre-teen,
cocky, sullen
but sometimes mine
again, at night.
I would read to him
or sing
and he would forget
that he was not a mama’s boy;
nestle into the crook of my arm.

Teenage years
spent learning how
to kill with his bare hands:
martial arts
obsessed.

Now he’s an adult.
I look back
on years
that went too fast.

All the changes
all the chances
I had to make a difference.
I messed up
most of them.

He has no need,
now, for a mother.
He wants me far away.
He’s just a cold stranger
but I love him, anyway.

If you were to ask me
what he wanted
where he lived,
or how he felt,
I could give you general answers,
gleaned from other sources.

My own son
is as alien to me
as any stranger on the street.

Looking at his baby books,
I pause at this page,
and that. Remember favorite pastimes.
They’re all past time, now.

All I have is memory
of the son I brought to earth.
Cherished as well as I was able
then let go, at his request.

People say
he loves me.
But I know it isn’t true.
He wants me to disappear
as much as I want to.

Embarrassed
by me; my scars,
my insanity;
by that fact that I exist

I am embarrassed too,
for loving him as much as I do
when I’m simply a source
of shame for him,
my former Little Boy Blue.

Pretense and subterfuge.
Nothing’s genuine.
Even the teeth are false.
Every story carefully groomed
to elicit certain emotions.

Character on a stage;
nothing real shows,
at first.

Slowly,
truth crawls out.
Nothing stays hidden forever.

Revealed for what
they truly are,
the sociopath becomes cruel.
Desperate to actually be capable of
the feelings they casually fake.

Devoid of true emotion,
morals or integrity,
they bluff their way through life,
carry the Bible, the Big Book,
wear crosses or cassocks,
business suits or shining armor…
any costume to seem respectable –

To seem human,
be what they can never be;
feed on fantasy
like vampires.

Scrutiny reveals
lifelong patterns of theft, addiction;
adultery, deception of all sorts.
All, of course, misunderstandings.
Poor innocents, led astray
by the siren’s call.

In the world of the sociopath,
responsibility always
belongs to someone else.

4-4-2011

I may not be that great,
but the cat likes my lap
and my dog follows
wherever I go.

I am the favorite aunt
to all my nieces and nephews,
and my son is a great kid
who loves me.

I may not be that great
but I am enough.
Opinions of small lives
matter most –
It’s through the helpless
that God’s light shines,
and it shines on me every day.

I may not be that great,
without a real job.
I may never be wealthy,
but I am rich in what matters.

I count to several someones
who all count to me.

Written in 2004

***Caution to viewers. This video can be triggering/upsetting. It contains images that can be disturbing. Be safe.***
This is to provide information about this very misunderstood disorder that affects aproximately 1% of the world’s population.
The disorder is very real. As someone diagnosed with it, I know for a fact that it is.
(for those who are going to ask which song this is… it’s “About her” From the Kill Bill soundtrack)
Video & caution by MaxP0wer25 on youtube
Song Scarlet by Brooke Fraser, video by Bcciliz
video by castorgirl
Directed by Trevor Sands, posted on youtube by InsideShort
This is part 1 of 8 of a series called MPD / DID – Trauma based Mind Control – it’s well worth the time it takes to watch, if you want to understand DID.

Unwed Mother

Posted: November 24, 2010 in My Poetry
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I am here,
some nasty secret:
a mistake
you can’t ignore.

I am here
pulsing
in the hot red
of your shame.

You hide me
like a mousetrap,
cheese gone
and sprung.

In dark cellars
I am waiting.
Hidden, throbbing
black-blood:

three hearts thick
and folded.

Infertility at Thirty-four

Posted: November 15, 2010 in My Poetry
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The bones that form my hips
are like a white bowl
of plastic fruit,
useless and inedible;
ripe with frustrated life.

The future is here
in a small bitter seed
I carry deep inside me.

Like an invisible cherry,
it sits in the bowl
of my pelvis
longing to be eaten.

Its cries at night
are muffled in flesh.

That seed is the only
real thing inside me.

Fireworks . Pictures, Images and Photos

Brilliant flash;
a purple nebula,
quickly blurs to white,

traced on the sky
like a spider’s web.

Color races over wet ground,
receding just as quickly,
bright lights fade away.
Ebb and flow of a neon wave,
exploding at our feet.

There is peace, despite the booms,
despite the smell of smoke.
Perhaps derived from memories:
childish delight in bright colors,
new smells, cool grass.

Explosions rocket across the sky
spiraling up in plumes of smoke.
I sit barefoot on the cement stairs,
arm around my son.

He deserves this memory:
A sky colored with lights like a present
and a warm arm around his waist.

(1998)

 

In the white bellow
I see him
wrapped tight around our son,
swaying to the dance
of dark raindrops.
Lightning gouges;
ice-pick sharp
and night
sucks into the wound.

After spilling gutters clear
and beaten trees drop leaves
he climbs in beside me, his cold
bristles against my legs;
the baby, a warm comma between us.
The only wind now
is the sound of our breathing
and I sink, like a stone, into sleep.

Mother Love

Posted: May 9, 2010 in My Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Cool hand on forehead,
smoothing back of hair.
Low sweet voice of lullabies
melting in the air.

To be sick is not as painful
with a mother there.

Slick brown chest of muscles
where none have been before.
You are not my son.
You have moved beyond.
You are someone sullen; cocky –
Restless to be you.
Demanding freedom to grow up.
Pulling away from me.

But, at night,
sometimes,
you are mine again;
folding into the crook of my arm
as I sit on your bed and sing.
Your blonde head,
a stunning replica
of my little boy’s.