She wrote with sound and fury. She wrote like a Warrior Poet, and she won her freedom.
The beauty of a daffodil
lies in my Mother’s hands.
Mom’s palm
is fast to calm any grief.
Mom’s passing went so fast and so slow
but silently none the less.
Oh God, my dear God, how do I make it through this.
I have my Mom’s hands; they make daisies beautiful.
Away above the clouds she dwelled
until slumber I took.
In her left hand, she grasped a plain, wooden bowl
In her right, an ornate, porcelain vase.
In dark, I slept in terrors as her lengthy arms fell from the sky
Grasping the bowl down my throat, she scooped me out.
Misery, we shared.
But, as the day began to creep back in,
her magical potions of clear, cool water caressed me through with joy and jubilation. Dig me deep and fill me up, my wise, wizened Mother.
Is it the left hand or the right tonight?
Like every night, it’s both.
I drank a cup of poison today
opened her up and slewed her down.
And, all of the folk who wished me harm,
regretted there wishes and were over come with a mass of frowns.
I said I drank a cup of poison today
would have eaten it if I could
But, I knew that drink was all my tummy would take,
Otherwise, gnashing I would.
You drank some, too, my dear ones
And, agreed that it’s better than guns…
except in a true duel
Striking matches to enlighten a room
Shadows blur on the wall.
The flame having no shadow
enlightens your mind.
Cannot breathe
Sheets smell of a two day continuous fart gala
Eeeww!…He flicked a booger on me that he had balled up like a balloon.
I have become a waste can for fresh, newly picked boogers.
How do you get raped while the rapist picks his nose?
You remember the punishment that will befall you next time Mom and dad are away.
Between the tears and his sweat your Tweey Bird nightie is drenched and a full breath is impossible.
He’s so scrawny yet feels like a boulder on your chest.
Rolling off of me, he does a gymnastic type dance and is on the floor.
“Get out of my bed, slut” he remarks in a sneering yet comical way,
but you can still get the hint that he means business.
I was eight.
My heart is just a hot mess!
Why so, you could hardly guess!
Men tore it in two.
leaving me to boo hoo!
Now, I am learning to love me first.
Staring at the paint chips in the ceiling,
Not wanting to move because I’m sick and finally cozy.
I’m starving though.
I stretch and claw my way into a half seated position
My mammoth duo of dogs aid me to no avail.
I lie back down,
defeated.
Taking a couple of puffs off my vape,
I rev upward.
I’m hungry dammit.
I stretch and wobble,
the dogs think it’s game on now!
I grab a chair and pull myself up.
Thighs of fire get me cleaned up and fed.
But, looking at me in the end, you would never know the fight.
Southern ladies always are presentable.
After all, we tidy our hair and freshen our lipstick,
even if the house was on fire.
I forgive myself for idealizations of holidays pastFor quick crying between wishesFor wiping tears on my pumpkin apronFor missing the harvest moon …
Poetry: Thanksgiving
This blog entry by an amazing artist conveys my thoughts exactly. I am alone this Thanksgiving, and it really had me down until I read this piece by sweet Bridgette. You should check out her writings and photos.
And, to those who wonder where the turkey and mash potatoes are- they are in your heart, dear one. Thank each of you who read and support my blog. Your dedication keeps me dedicated. Many thanks and blessings to you all!!!
Love~ Susan
She’s a no good harlot!
She’s possessed with evil intent.
She paints her face and wears improper clothes.
But, the winds scream Mary.
Why is she this way?
No one but she and her God know what happened to her.
One act of kindness from the Right Person-
She is healed.
And, the wind whispered Mary
My Catholic named is Mary Magdalene.
I know her pain and see through the lies.
Her invisible scars speak to me.
And, I cry MARY!
*giant nod to Jimi
Long before she lost her leg,
before five-year-old me scratched her cornea,
before she had her cancerous breast removed,
Mom was a water ballerina.
When our family went on vacation to Sanibel- back before it became trashy and shark ridden,
Mom would put on her simple bathing suit from last year and the one before that and the one before that and so on.
Next, she would put in her weighted fake boob and something was lost from her sparkle.
Then, unable to swim because of all of these stupid things,
she would walk miles up and down the beach collecting sea shells.
As a child, I thought it was her passion.
A shell hard to be unique and lovely in any form to go in Mom’s bucket.
So, day by day, morn til you couldn’t see your hand it was so dark, Mom would trudge the beach always looking out for jellyfish though I am sure dad would have urinated on her.
Mom , barefoot, would dance with the ocean.
Sometimes, a cha cha…other times a fox trot,
but they all seemed a lustful waltz to an 8 year-old me.
Later, in the condo, the two of us would go through her finds!
I loved the spiral ones, because I could hear the ocean I had been swimming in all day.
Mom listened to all of the sea shells
I tried it, too, but heard nothing.
I told Mom she was being silly with me, but she swore she wasn’t.
She’ll after shell, she laid back and listened to her lover’s call.
But, I heard nothing at all.
Susan Awakening 