Amid this winter’s grey mist grip
our April mocks her Spring impression.
Rush hour red lights stop and start,
frustrated and my happened glance at
a waif like girl no more than nine,
she’s mouthing words of imagined rhyme.
I watch her whispering monologues
as she tiptoes boulders in the park.
Pure innocence her soft protection
from cruel worlds I suffer much too well.
I mouthed my thank you to the waif
and she tiptoed boulders until dark.
Sunless skies, endless
grey clouded over grey crusted
snow, creating havoc for crocus shoots
struggling to make their stand.
Winter, a slow
death by its thousand windy cuts
and imperceptable emotional fade, now
so few words shared between them.
All purple and
orange in full bloom swathed across
front yard lawns stirring expectations, and
memories of their languid summer days.
Teal sky
days that start warm ending warmer,
their uninterrupted steady sun and their
sleeveless shirts and moist sweaty skin.
Sun, her kiss
once assured his unsteady heart. So many
purple and orange reasons to be hopeful but
March, always the cruel reminder.
written March 2013
revised FOR April 2013 :- /
He would trace the jagged map of cracks
smeared plaster wall aside his bed,
his ashen memory of their life imagined
‘How, how did it ever come to this?’
The signs were there trust and naive heart
believing every little late night lie,
the bills a bed and their sick calico Jane
‘Reasons? I don’t owe you anything!’
Now his grieving heart blindly traces cracks
blinds drawn closed on the summer day,
the life imagined all his dreams gone hush
‘How, how did it ever come to this?’
written April 2013
Luke’s exhaustion consumed his last blink as he slipped beneath the watery depths of sleep. His demons however did not retreat, chasing him relentless. Their footprints forming trails of steam behind him, or were they his. Gone too quick for anyone to follow, lost so that he never shares his burdens. He has to rest and the only shade he can see is provided by a shadow with no discernible source. In his fatigue his senses are dulled and his awareness is clouded, so he fails to realise that he stands under a shadow, cast by no one or from nothing.
Suddenly a girl, no more than 8 years old, appears by his side. Her face is glowing; she is vibrant, energetic and quizzically turning her head as she stares at him. She seems confused with Luke’s stance. “Why do you stand in the sun, when shade is at hand?” she asks, sweeping her hand in a gentle movement towards a Coolabah tree. “You look hot, would you like a drink?”
Luke’s dried lips crack as he opens mouth. He has dare not speak for as long as he can remember, out of fear that his lips would dissipate in the wind. “Where did you come from?” his voice rasps.
She just smiles, and then skips away deeper into the desert. The shadow pursues her vainly into the darkness of the forgotten. Luke thinks of yelling out to her again, but raising his hand to hail her is painful enough. Confused he isn’t sure what is real. The thought however is too hard to contemplate at the moment, so he turns, crunching the barren soils beneath his feet as he drags his feet slowly to the tree. Where did this tree come from he wonders, but in a land with no landmarks and no recollection of how he got here, there is little time to be concerned with such trivial matters.
He reaches the edge of the shade and mutters to no one in particular “Goodbye” before stepping over the threshold. He wakes before he feels the cool relief of the shade. Lying face down in reality, to face the battles of life that refuse to submit even in surreal lands.
Thirty years
(and counting).
I am falling still.
Sometimes the sky
is achingly blue,
and the memory of clouds
brushes white against azure.
At others,
cumulonimbus
create the bouncy castle
in which I jump
and play.
Then are those gray days,
rent with lightning,
drenched with rain,
when misery enfolds me
and I long for solid ground
on which to make
soft landing.
Susan Dean Wessells
Susan Dean Wessells has been writing poetry since ethe age of eight. Her life has been rich with varied experiences which nourish her writing. In 2007 she realized a lifelong dream of being a contestant on the Jeopardy! game show. She is currently writing a novel about vampire nuns.
I have lost a child, a teen with his life and future ahead of him.
It broke me-my body, soul and spirit.
And then there was you-mom.
When my son, I lost what I dreamed of,
With you, I lost the chance to really know you.
You were private, you kept things to yourself.
You had just began to tell me the things
that made you who you were-
I keep thinking that if you had told me, sooner,
it would have saved me so much pain.
Never-I loathe that word. Never again.
Today I put flowers on two graves -yours and his.
I am sickened by what my life has become.
It has never been as I dreamed,
And often been nearly unbearable.
It seems others take loss and go on with life.
I don’t understand it and never will.
How can others go on with what made life a joy?
When I am forced to exist without what made me live at all.
I hide within a quilt
gazing at the ceiling
pondering over things
and finally, getting tortured
by my conflicting thoughts-
the night goes on
and I succumb to sleep
with no dreams.
The day is foggy
which seems to have emerged
from my agony
which burnt me in the night
now I can see the smoke
of that vengeful fire
spread around me.
I haven’t written anything substantial for so long.. seems to me as if the worm that used to make me write is now dead; still I am trying feebly to write something, even if it is bizarre.
A small dream
of doing something,
anything,
just to get off bed,
have a nice bathe,
wear some decent clothes
and set out to see the world-
its a small dream
I dream of everyday
staying, sulking on the bed.
Flowers blowing in the wind (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
wind slowly blowing
the only noise is a tear
knowing not where were going
we try to face this fear
pain in the past,
we’ll soon never forget
questions we ask
avoided when we met
rain slowly falling
drowning out that tear
I hear your love calling
it’s always been this near
Dear me at the age of 30-
I hope you survived this long
despite of the ravaging storm,
if you are still going through
the same situation as me
try hard to get rid of it
because there is more to life
but this numbness
you must have embraced so
comfortably by now,
if you have got rid of it
never forget your experience
embrace your new life
and take those steps
you have earlier been
too afraid to take.
whether you are still dealing
with it or not,
try and help others-
listen to them, let them speak,
never be judgemental
for I know how it feels
and you too, I know.
Sincerely, the being that is you
at a younger age of 17.
Again feeling nothing
an emptiness prevails
the mind is numb
the heart is fragile
I ask questions from myself
but there seem to be no answers
Again feeling nothing
it is a large void
where I exist with myself
with nothing to feel.
stars are falling all around us , read in the news there’s another wrecked school bus ….. I’m at sorts today . I think to much sometimes ….why is the world like this . My life has consisted of pain of some kind or another , why did I endure this rather than just give in and live a simple life .
Some days …..hmmmmm days like today I search for things I know I can’t find. I have no idea why these days exist ….I need to push by this feeling I’m having today….I’m writing this in hopes to find associations for some of my impulse’s or ways of thinking …..It’s hard someday’s to reach out to others, I hope people understand why I’m like this , not thinking I’m avoiding for some other reason.
The physical portion is getting worse for me , pain ….real pain either side effects from medication or just pain catching up to me from past injuries or aging pains . my abdominal cavity has gotten worse ..I may need to be admitted into the hospital for them to find it…..
A Pain That I’m Used To (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I have been away for a bit, some of you know why, my husband has been battling lung cancer since January. He fought a very brave battle but on July 25 between the hours of 5:30am and 6:45am he took his journey to the next level. I am proud to have been able to help him stay home till the end, comfortable and pain free. Now for those of us left behind the healing begins….
People walking back and forth
carrying on with their daily lives,
Oblivious to the pain felt by those around them,
the deafening agony of loss
searing into the souls of those left behind.
Blind to the ache of loss and feelings of no longer belonging.
Life continues on leaving those behind lost
in the fog of memories and tears.
The roar of heartache slices through the skin
like a sharp knife sparing no one and showing no mercy.
To sit and feel a nothingness
is the only choice left
to get through each day.
