Winter is harsh this year
and summer will be scorching.
Believers and nonbelievers pray
for rain. The dams are almost empty.
They say it is a curse.
No theory, angst or even ignorance
can ignore the fact that our suffering
will become worse.
Hope dances in slow sway
and says:
Prepare for the dying day.
When did you last dance? he asked.
Whatever happened to Mya?
I am still the same. Truth is perverse,
and often ruthless in its mocking echoes.
God knows I will never tire of memories,
or to rehearse.
It gives me something, at least,
to lose to dementia.
But ever Love will carry me.
During the very cold winter months I often gather clothes from my closet for the poor. This act of love goes far into my past. Charity is something seen as shaming to most. I thus can understand why my mother did what she did ...
At a certain stage our preacher -- who wished to place us in foster care for her being constantly in hospital, and my stepfather retrenched -- brought us some old clothes, gathered from the congregation.
We were four children ... and then five. My mother, being very proud and hardworking when not in hospital, accepted this offering with gratitude, and we children rejoiced in each finding an own piece of clothing amongst those discarded by others. I was nine years old. My treasure was a beautiful, three-layered skirt, white, with a soft flower border on each layer.
My mother, however, in an act of love and of protection, dyed every single garment the same purple; she could afford only one sachet of colorant! The result turned out to be, for most I am sure, a ghastly color: almost purple black. We had no choice but to wear those garments. Dyed such, the clothes stood out: a poverty brand.
My poor mother! She so wanted not to have us walking around and someone pointing and say: That was my skirt (or sweater, or shorts). Finally, that is exactly what happened. Because of the obvious color, all stared in awareness of the effort to camouflage.
I will never forget my purple, three-layered skirt, though. I danced in it, barefoot, letting it flare around me like a ballet dress. I was a princess!
dancing in dyed swirl of dress
a memory, dark pleat, a purple flash
a brush of breeze to skin, to flesh
oh dancing in a moment gone
a recollection caught by sun
I will never stop loving my dearest mother Ada, whose efforts often turned out to be exactly the opposite of what she wished to achieve.
Now, after all these years, I recall this, and many other such incidents, with a giggle.
I still love dark purple ... and the poor will always be very near to my heart.
dancing in mortality
a memory, black stroke, a purple pulse
a brush of kiss to soul, a waltz
oh dancing in eternal sun
a recollection never gone
.
Author notes
We are but mortal beings; our efforts often weird and seemingly insane to others. But deep inside our hearts yearn for wholeness and the eternal Waltz. I wish this brought a smile to your lips, Precious Poetess. May you truly feel the warm embrace of our Loving Father, guiding us Home through taintedness of purple dyes ... HUGS
In a list
A contest entry
- picking your brain to pick mine by Odds and Ends.
1600 points, ended September 24, 33 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
1 - 8 of 8
-
This... this one hit me the hardest I think.
Why do people not talk about the simple things that shaped them more often? It is writes like these that I enjoy more than most.
It's true. It's honest and real life.
Thank you for sharing this with me.
-
-
Thank you for the HM
I am so glad you could find a way to relate to this very personal write.
Love
Myra
-
-
What a wonderful story! Full of twists, turns, irony and triumph. Purple is the regal color, as in ancient days it was the rarest, most expensive pigment and yet one of the deepest and most brilliant. I think it suits you well.
-
a wonderful honest passionate poem, i love the idea of sacrifice and the cross of christ that gives us so much comfort, but i also see in this poem a vision of the laughing budhha (not a god but a man) laughing at the folly and irony of life..steadfast against adversity.......a lovely write my friend.........stay well
-
Is why I love you Myra
-
I have a client who told me of his aunt who always wore purple. In the deep south, black was only the first color of mourning. Then purple... and someone was always dying. I like to call the phenomena the "Crash" effect; after the Movie "Crash". People in the movie are complaining about the injustices in life; and everything they do only makes things worse. In scripture it is "There is a way that seems right to a man, but the end is destruction."
In WW2 the British flew off the harbor of the Hague and skipped bombs into the first floor of the gestapo headquarters. Nearby underground fighters rushed in and rescued their captured colleagues. They were able to identify the building, because the Germans had painted it in splinter camouflage while the other buildings were normal! -
aaawwww it's so pretty
-
Poet
And wonderful story and a reminder that though we may struggle we can still laugh at life. and you know what I can truly relate. It was always hand me downs in my younger days.
Adding your comment:
1 - 8 of 8
