Often I Have Wondered In My life, If My Experiences Have Been Unique, Or If You As A Reader Can Relate And Understand The Agony And Pain We Share
One Of My Experiences Of Many, Written Below In Poetic Form
As she dressed for the party, I watched intently, my eyes followed her every move. Sitting on the blue quilted chair in my nightie, with my elbows resting on the table, I was mesmerized as she slowly drew her silk stockings, then pulling a slip over her head, she gracefully stepped into a black dress, clinging to her thin little body. Her dark hair combed with care, pulled back with a shiny barrette, and with a finishing touch, a necklace of pearls and matching earrings, she stood before the mirror, and as the light from the window fell upon her, she was beautiful, like a lustrous pearl in emerald green grass, and I loved her so much, even though she was out of touch with her little girl. Reaching for a small lavender bottle of perfume, she applied sweet scents behind each ear, and then smiling at me, dabbing a drop on each of my cheeks with a teasing grin. It melted into my memory, my skin was perfused with the scent of my mother. Asking if I could put on a dress and play outside on my tricycle, she bent down low and kissed me goodbye. I remember the sense of abandonment I felt. Would she come back? Would I be left alone while she partied all night? Well, she might!
“But Of The Tree Of Good And Evil You Shall Not Eat”
She sat in the garden in quietness and trust, a garden full of trees, but one in the midst she must not touch, it was forbidden. The sun reflects apples of burnished gold, with leaves of vivid green. A lustrous sheen of light surrounds it, a dazzling sight before her eyes. She is astounded by its beauty as she slowly rises, but she had remembered God’s words of caution,” do not touch it, or else she would surely die.”
Then The Serpent Said To The Woman “You Will Not Surely Die”
There is a rustling sound and to her surprise, a serpent is resting among branches. She could not resist and went closer and found it pleasing. He saw her coming and slithered to her side, whispering – “Come, touch the fruit and eat, you will not die, but you will be as wise as your God and I.” She is startled at its gaze as she looks in its eyes and hears its deceptive words. Closer and closer she nears the tree, bending her ear to the serpents call, plucking the fruit and then she falls. Running to her helpmate, she passes the fruit that he may eat and join her fate. They stood at the gate in a shy embrace, as God came walking in the coolness of day, looking for His children who had disobeyed. They hid among the trees in fear, then heard Him speak, “My love and forgiveness is with you, a Way has been provided that you will be saved.” The guardian angels wept softly as they closed the doors of the gate. The garden’s once tethered breeze now blows with fury. A chain of lightning with distant thunder, then rain appears. Their bodies once clothed with light, now became garments of leaves clinging to their skin. Vines and flowers began to hang their heads, ones they had dressed in beauty, now became dead. But one special Vine was given, planted by the hand of God, its branches filling the earth with pardon and love. Over miles of distant lands and many seas, through violent winds and tragedy, wherever man would live, the Vine would follow them. Its ‘Tender Roots’ will survive, producing fruit, the wine press has been trodden, the grapes crushed, a crimson robe is given, stained with our sins and stricken!
Father is holding her with his arm, she is sobbing in pain. The white clad doctor in alarm, rushes through the hospital door. Water is running down mother’s legs unto the floor. I begin to ooze between my mother’s loins, when suddenly I stop. They quickly pull a bed over, in anguish she lies. A resistant birth, in suffering she cries. They pull me out with metal claws, squeezing my head, with scissors they cut the umbilical cord. I have arrived! I am set aside, as they mop up afterbirth and water, nurses running to beds of screaming mothers. A darkness follows me, from an infant it encloses me. My eyes are pinched by blackness, I am accompanied by sadness. Bringing me home, my tapered crown is covered with a cap. Dressed in pink, she holds me in her lap, as I sink into a sleep, then waking to the sound of the tinkling of glass, of people laughing and having drinks. Friends and family come to see this baby, curious to see if I am normal. I am a gazing ball as they stare, not sure of what lays in this cradle. The day comes when I open my eyes, I look around at the strange objects, my mind trying to grasp the colors, smells and words of curse with adverse sounds. The very first words I
hear…even as I begin to creep, there is something that is not right. I weep in my sleep, waking to somber thoughts, not knowing what they are all about. Whispers are about me, I am sitting in the center of an atrocity, I am filled with curiosity. Who are they? With one fist in my mouth, trying not to cry, clutching my doll…she comes into my room and with a jerk I awake, crawling out of bed. Two years old, I am a football! A group of men are acting strange and laughing. One comes and picks me up, throwing me in the air, taking turns, catching me. One time they miss! I drop to the floor, hitting my head. Touchdown! I am dazed. Red fluid leaks out. People stand around…the stage has been set, could this be the start of A child’s journey through darkness?
Excerpts from the book by the author – “Weeping Child To Forgiving Child”
“It always seemed like I was reeling and spinning, that their was no solid ground”…
Words from a child who one day would be placed far above her depths of despair.
“Children are resilient, loving and forgiving, always trusting midst chaos and confusion“
There had always been a hand over her, that one day would be revealed
I ‘m not sure when or why all of this happened, a life like a spinning top, never finding a landing. The clock of my life had been turned back, sordid thoughts, clinging to each other, the hands not willing to go forward. In a normal person’s thinking, they automatically shut off the thoughts and go on to more pleasing ones. They can stop it just like that! I never had that privilege, mine were stuck like glue, defying any means of separation, causing me much frustration. In a child’s mind of imaginary people playing the part of existing role models, it turns out alright, if they are lucky enough to have had safe and sound boundaries placed in their lives. But in the beginning of my imaginary persona, they were far from normal, a father bombed with alcohol, a mother addicted to gambling, abusive stepfathers with no morals. I really never had the opportunity to question this existence. It just was! I remember as a child, the loneliness and abandonment. I knew something wasn’t right, the constant defeat chasing me, but then what was right? When I think in retrospect, it beguiles my mind, that to survive all of this was a feat worth mentioning. There was no rhyme or reason for their cruel acts. I looked to my role models of this pitiful existence as my heroes, but then why wouldn’t I? I was unable to see what they lacked. In a child’s eyes this is all I knew. But I grew despite all of their abusive ways, portrayed on a daily basis, (and nightly). When it seemed all the demons and dragons played their mischievous acts, they knew when to strike, fighting, screaming, attacking an already compromised brain from trauma, wrapping their chains about me. How could hope ever come out of such chaos and confusion? But this child’s suffering would not be wasted, it must be captured and saved, that one day all of these meaningless deeds will hopefully bring healing, as I share my story with others!
I post my poems on Facebook poetry sites, and just recently due to a glitch in the system I was unable to receive FB emails, to engage with other poets with their comments and replies. I wrote a little scenario of this experience and how we become so dependent on technology and when it doesn’t work we appreciate it even more when we suddenly are left without it.
Facebook… you are a wonderment of
the internet. Where else could one go to have their poems posted among so many selected other’s?
But I have been away for a while, since you cut me out of poetic cyberspace. Because of your glitch have I been put on the bottom of your list?
Being off the circuit of words has questioned the theme I post. It seems that love and romance is the most well received. The ravishingly words of erotic touch,
that brings about exhilarating feelings. Of lovers gone astray looking for others to fill their longings. But then I excitedly see new websites of spirituality coming aboard, which seems to blend within my reasoning.
Does it just take time to get back in the circle? What drives people to read a poet’s books? My books have only received a few five star reviews.
I wonder how people get so many followers? I have only one, I’m not sure who it is, maybe one that can relate to abuse, abandonment and deliverance, perhaps not the most popular topic.
I try but the words just don’t come out right, so I’ll just keep posting the gift of words given to me, in hopes that just one visitor will stop by my sight, leaving a comment to which I can reply. And of course I’ll do the same for them. So FB, I’ll wait for you to return to help me respond…
And thank you Sean Thomas, for your word ‘Awesome’ you don’t know how that word gave me a glimmer of hope to continue on!
“Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.”
“In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life:it goes on.”
I should be so blessed, or be put upon a shelf to rest, at least I express my grief, though somewhat indiscreet. Through pen and ink, beyond the scope of color, tapping upon a vastness deep, I weep. It is not a fatal sin to share what lies within, my sorrows make me ill until I share with others. We are not alone. The tears we own have flown through centuries. A self proclaimed poet is what I am, not worthy to walk upon the sod of these sleeping ones. These comforter’s who have passed, inspire me to plod my painful path. Please, do not take my pen and ink away, it is the only way I can survey my dismay. And each book I write, until my last, I will draw from the inkwell of tears from my past.