Bullet and Flower

So, I am impolite

I am polite.

As father was with, an open clenched kitten’s paw.

Honed to strength of aged claw.

OUR only diagnosis a home where the fishy scales dry…warm and raw

Both my father and I…a seamstress, a tailor with a dull needle. 

Tethered together…venomous spelunkers in a  dry well.

Scratched in tongues so wide and red. 

OUR bloodline canvasses a coyote grey and turquoise blue. aligned to the crimson lies we tell….

From outside a generation’s thought tanned knuckles, rosebud cheek, thorny wishes down a wishing well.

From outside a generation’s thought, I lay in a casket made of crib ribbons and no pillow for my head.

And, my mother’s resourcefulness vows to lay with the dead.

Mother Melancholia

Ah, I understand now, alone, a product of ancient Rome

(a black collar, middle class, value family from my generation.)

Generation Catacomb!

WE utter tumors of blood.

For with OUR blood…plug the dykes and the wall still remains

It was there I had seen him first.  An overly clean orderly with distended belly. Apparently, he had many needs to feed his vice.

 

Than…

Oh, Mother Melancholia had been a woman-child of gelled mold.  Obliging, as a casserole.  She had been known for trading a weekend passes just to come in from the cold.

Catacomb Lovers you fill my psyche with only lies.

Broad is a shipwrecked boat in the woods, swinging from a household tree.

Sweaty are the breasts upon cursed, crafty cave.

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I protest to this embankment,

The residents, the freaks, are prepared to overthrow!

No matter how you keep your pansies, well groomed.  No matter the vials for your smiles.  A Pagan Reformer tide…will be coming soon.  Crimson waters will punish your passageway.

..a chastity belt notched around the tombs.

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Anne

Anne had not known abuse, as of late.

That sort of uninsured… moodiness began thirty years ago.

The feel of the tired shag carpeting, as it lay beneath her side.  The texture of the fake wood that held up her dresser.  Had she known it was just a holding tank for pet fur; she would have vacuumed under it more often.  As it was, she would need to make note of the chaotic, shedding that occurred under her bedroom furniture.  She most definitely needs to take care of that issue, before, Gerald, witness the uncleanliness.

Remembering, now, at the ripe old age of, old age, Anne, knew fetal equaled,  ‘misdeed’.  Position equaled, leaving oneself open to suggestion.  A suggestion that was not always wanted.

In the sun-room of the Needles Nursing Home, Anne often pondered,

 

‘What could it have been like for the children to see me like that?  Curled in, closed off, sobbing but not allowing myself to cry.  Hysterical but not willing to make it such a…nervous breakdown!

….

The abuse begin to turn a different sort of turn, approximately, three decades ago.  When she promised herself, ‘I will know longer think of myself as, taken advantage of!’

That is when the cowering and the coward came into play.  Though, still at the hand of her narcissistic husband, Anne began to behave differently.

No longer would she sit and judge, Gerald.  No longer would she stand in the way of his ‘disciplining’ the children.  Anne, slowly became an extension of Gerald’s long armed law.  Neither a promoter or instigator.  Nor, an encouragement or finger pointer.

The sun-room at this time of day, created beautiful crosses on the lavender walls.  And, though the chapel, were down the hall.  It was in this particular room of the aged home, Anne, felt less guilty.

It wasn’t easy being the midwife to hate.  Being the eyes and ears of the Head of the House.  Yet, when her role started to fall into place.  Possibly in her later forties.  It had been then that Anne accepted Gerald for all his faults.  The kids seemed frightened but older and able to head out on their own, soon.  And, worrying less about the abuse, made her full-time job, off sight, more enjoyable.

Yet…

‘How did her son feel when Gerald threatened to kill him?  Chasing him into the backyard with fist curled, and leather belt readied and willing.

What did her youngest daughter think when Gerald pushed Anne so hard into the stonewall surrounding the driveway?  An impact so forceful she had a slight black and blue under her eye and swollen shoulder for about a week.

Why the giving up to give in?

 

The children had their issues.  But, what further damage would she; Anne, have created, had she antagonized, Gerald, further with tears and reprimanding?

As the roll call for four o’clock supper echoed the nearly vacant halls, Anne began to rise.  Aching from new old pains.  Slightly miffed that her younger daughter had not called to inquire of Anne’s health status.  In need of, morphine for the many debilitating illnesses that had nudged Anne’s doctor into placing her at the Home.

Anne gave up all current thought of the past.  As she always did.  Assuming that the past was just the past.  Rehashing old wounds did no good.  It was…

 far easier on everyone to just forgive and forget.

B.W.S from the adult-child’s perspective:

  • Many battered women stay in abusive relationships.
  • Many making excuses or minimizing your partner’s behavior
  • Many have  low self-esteem
  • Many are traditionalist, believing in family unity and feminine sex-role stereotypes
  • Many accept responsibility for the batterer’s actions
  • Many feel that rocking the boat will make the abuse worse
  • Most…

will not live long enough to enjoy Anne’s sun-room!

 

Uprooted

 

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The ebb, the flow

a rip, a current.

Stark contrast living among deep unity.

If I could see the trees ache.

I  would anguish for them.

But, as is the forever case…I am too late.

Misery has arrived and there is no place to hide from it.

Sadness…laying there on the backs of all that has fallen.

Taunting me…

Playing with the idea that my help would do some good.

In the stillness of a chirping chorus…

the bleakness of human stampede…

In this earth, of this earth…

I would be mistaken to believe.

Believe I can hasten the bitter and sweet…

the…in-between.imageedit__2729951255

Mid-Summer Doubt

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middle of the night apathy, empathy…

make shift post traumatic…mental surgery

these gestures grapple my tension…

and, tackle the feet

leading me to question the woman…I had hoped to retrieve

it is the middle of the day…

thoughts…going, gone,

go away

when time is tucked in the fray

sympathy, mockery…feelings of purging and perjury…

dance in ambient light

fallen…mid-stream to the rapid, blur of being on the wayside

the woman I once retrieved

questioning…

‘why fight?’

so often she is a parody of nature

in the midst of a heatwave…humid doubt creeps in

shaking the heavily salted sweat from my mane

elements needed in forgetting why she…and, I…came

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