Search This Blog

Loading...

Saturday, May 8, 2010

What's In A Life?

What's in a life?
Moments captured on digital
and unseen synapses in the mind
Laughter and parties
Studying, group projects the infinite toil
Struggling
to hold onto the almighty dime
What's in a life?
The kisses, the hugs
sex and mornings left over
Coffee and donuts
Lunches with friends
Trips to the Coast
What's in a life?
Shopping and community service
Sports:
Did you see that game?
What's in a life?
Awards and accolades
final grades, great romances,
long good-byes and many tears
A long ceremonial walk...
What's in a life?
Bands of gold and white satin gowns
tuxes and shaved mustaches
Dancing with mom
and a father/daughter dance
Well wishes and tinkling of
spoons against crystal glasses
What's in a life?
baby diapers, midnight feedings at three
New cars and a house,
a neighborhood with good schools to look at
Bicycles soon after those teeth fall out
Stitches and Saturdays
with kids safely loaded in vans
Hours upon hours cheering,
standing courtside, at the rink,
running down the field, at recitals for dance
What's in a life
Sundays buying the paper
warm dinners with family
holidays running about,
decorating the tree
What's in a life
boys now men,
falling for girls lovingly grown
your babies having babies,
to love and to hold
What's in a life
role playing and title changes
memories caught on tape
toasts with champagne
bar-b-que picnics
and walks along the shore,
recalling olden days
What's in a life?
funerals and tears
The end of the journey for one,
and new beginnings for another
A legacy earned,time served
Maintaining momentum,until one
is captured within
someone else's memories
What's in a life?
Well that is up to you
It's your reality

Friday, May 7, 2010

BEYOND THE HORIZON

Beyond the horizon
hope lies in wait
A lament to yesterday
sealed coffin nails
lined soldiers, witnesses
to our fate
One can smell it,
the distinct scent of fear--
Ominous and strange,
like acid assaulting tongues;
embittered anguish the taste
Caged by day, alone into the night
our hearts stripped naked,
solitude long mined until vacant
We've been divided, halved
then halved again;
what remains is unrecognizable
The other side
could be more sweet
But inside these walls,
never will we believe
we are kept like animals
despite circumstances--
in spite of our state
The breezes know
what it is that they've seen
They've heard us cry, shielded our screams
And the trees, the trees
they bow down to us
but never when we are awake,
nor when it counts
Beyond the horizon
freedom awaits
Like hope, it waits
We breathe, we release
Slaves this side,
we belong to thee
On the other,
simply humbled women, are we.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Wailing

  My child taps into my emotional veins at least once an hour; she taps on them first, readying them for her steady heightened sense of irrationality. "Life is not fair. That is not fair! You are mean! I want you to...."  I tune her out before I finally snap.  I mean how many times can one say good-night?  I stare at nothing, in search of my sense of humor. I listen to the workings of my inner clock. I have work to do, I think to myself for the hundredth time today.
  The music blares through her headphones, the eldest with nothing holding her back save herself, and my middle child, she finally cracks  book, albeit the wrong one for homework. Has the whole world gone mad, or am I a bi-product of its insanity?

Progress

 I have toiled with the words, the insanity of the self-designed assignment, and I have absorbed the iconic images on every page.  I have formed my opinions and offered evidence, and yet I have not completed the task at hand. Never before have I squandered my time and resources in this same like manner. I am transient; my days numbered, my scholastic career cut short without notification--It must have been in the small print....
  I won't survive the failure, so I will earn the grade. I am my own best worst enemy, and yet I can also be my hero.

Poetic Impact

  Clicking the mouse, the tiny envelope signifying a new email message opens without pause. What greets the eye is the most beautiful series of stanzas, with words flowing like the gentle ebb and tide at sunset. The reader shifts her gaze back and forth, first once and then again, and the words resonate far more deeply than she could have imagined.  He has a gift, her able-minded friend across the seas.  He captures her imagination and holds it tightly within his grasp--the words are that strong--their message that important..
  Feeling as if she is living the trauma within the scenes, she catches herself and holds tightly to the edge of the chair.  These are real people, and the drama that has befallen them inserts itself into her brain stem; captured, she cannot escape the images, and feeling saddened by the experience she applauds him for his craft.  This is a masterpiece, and she is now wiser for having been exposed to its symmetry.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Miserable is As Miserable Does

Stop being miserable--it could be worse; you could be in my shoes and get a call saying your van is being repossessed and no matter what you try to to do to fix it, it is getting repossessed! Only question is when.

So you call your son and ask can he spot you some money and you call your husband and do the same--then a series of calls lasting hours takes place. You tell your boss you might be late and oh yeah, you have to leave early to find a way to school tomorrow and again on Friday because you have to figure out how to get your daughter to the guy's house, with whom she is going to the prom!

Your husband is at first, cool. Strange you think. Then his calls and texts start coming in more animated, more aggressive, until he is blaming your dumb ass for everything wrong in the world, especially because he gave you A LOT of money and now swears you just spent it all on shite.  Not true you argue, but he is off and running with his accusations and you say F--K YOU and hang up the phone.  You stand there all crushed and scared and sick and damn, it is the period start date isn't it?

You wipe your eyes and try to act normal as you dash in to the loo, dabbing your eyes and taking care of business quickly before your boss loses patience. You have to pick up the prom gown at the cleaners in an hour--someone paid for your daughter's ticket to an event later in the month and now that is hanging in the air, heavy as lead raindrops.

You try to act casual and thank your boss for offering to let you go home, but you know you cannot go there--the air is too sticky with angry frustration right now and you actually being there will make you the bull's eye to the upcoming wrath--nope, home can wait.

You rationalize the 90 days and all the other bills that kept this big one from getting paid on time over and over. You meant to pay it, you wanted to pay it, you love that f---king van.

Twenty minutes left and you have to make a dash to the gas station, home and to the cleaners before you park it and empty it of everything personal.  It is the not knowing when that is causing the heart-burn.  It is the sorrow that there is only a couple hundred on hand toward the grand owed---Time, there just isn't any more, like so many coins dropped down the sewer hole--there just isn't any time or clean way to break away from the freedom a car gives you.

Oh no, how to get the girls to school, or myself! Everything is collapsing--please God, if you are real, give me strength--I feel dry and hollow. I feel responsible and miserable.

Monday, May 3, 2010

Soapbox Prophet

 His head bent over the keyboard, he carefully studies the keys with every tap. The dictionary forever worn from his stumbling to find the correct spelling, he grumbles to himself, "addicted...is that two d's?" Thinking he is speaking in my direction, I answer ," a-d-d-i-c-t-i-o-n..."  He types it in and mutters a thank you.  I am signing homework and am distracted.; then it hits me. "Are you talking to someone about addiction?" I ask without thinking.  He half turns. I have broken his train of thought again. Damn.  "Never mind," he says and back he goes to whatever he was writing.

  Later I discover a theme on the public page. It seems a favored relative has been having a really bad day. Why does he think his spewing about almost taking his life while addicted will make her feel better?  I sit staring at the screen like I do so often, wondering why he airs his soapbox philosophies on the internet.  It makes him feel better whereas I obviously do not. I have little empathy for past indiscretions and weakness, both his and my own.
   He once told me I was in love with the drama in my life, that I longed for it and caused it whenever possible; he went so far as to infer that being abused was just an excuse for me to play the victim again.  I sit and I stare.  I know it isn't true, what he says, but I feel responsible. I feel responsible for everything that has gone wrong in this relationship.  I feel abandoned to the inconsistency of post-addiction.
  He hasn't partaken of substances for many years now, but his attitude, his ideology, his outlook remains trapped by the experiences that were so powerful and important to him.  They are more important than the daughter he still grieves for, the daughter he doesn't see, and the people he lives with.  He pushes and pulls, strong arms when he cannot converse, and all we can do is keep our thoughts to ourselves.
  The youngest child came downstairs tonight. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she sobs as she explains how she fell while putting on her pants. My God, she is just like him sometimes.  She wails, and she bellows at the mess in the room; never mind she did not fall on the floor. She fell into a drawer handle, because she was awkward and clumsy.  And still, he tries to deflect the blame, make it about the mess and not her carelessness.
  He storms upstairs, the dark cloud encircling his head.  We feel the door meeting the jam with a heaviness that defies logic.  "What is his problem?" she says, the eldest who is weary with the weight of household upon her shoulders.  I look at my girls, "I just don't know." I admit it. I do not know. I can only speculate, but that's all that anyone can do with a junkie, sobered or otherwise.  They are always a stone's throw form getting back on the horse or the soapbox and spouting prophecies that only make sense to fellow addicts, which we are not.

A Moment of Reflection

I am at a crossroads in my life.
Who isn't right?
Just when I tired of snow and ice,
the weather shifted and within its gentler breezes,
I found myself with renewed direction.
There was an error in this gadget

Blog Archive

Irish Is Everything

a community on Lunch.com

Kylemoore Abbey-Ireland

Kylemoore Abbey-Ireland

Pages

What kinds of things fascinate you in the world of daylight and eve?

GoodReads

Felicia's bookshelf: read

Angela's AshesA Great and Terrible BeautyJunie B. Jones and the  Stupid Smelly BusThe Adventures of Tom Sawyer/The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn/The Prince & the PauperPinocchioMy Friend Flicka

More of Felicia's books »
Felicia Maisey's  book recommendations, reviews, favorite quotes, book clubs, book trivia, book lists