i. 1978 -Age 3.
dear d,
you found your crayolas
and melted their tips in your friction.
mom didn't even have to show you how...
and though you read newspapers,
you still haven't quite mastered
those curlicues of cursive
across your bed board.
you're no longer the center
of your parents' glow,
for there is another
that occupies that space-
...you try hard to fill that void ... I know.
those shadows and voices from
the basement tell you to do bad things,
but those voices scare you and so you
shut and lock that door.
good girl.
ii. 1982 -Age 7
dear d,
you are imagination's images,
and escape echoes you know are real...
yet denied...
you tried hard at honesty,
between punishment's pains
and ignominious injuries-
beneath the teasing taunts,
of bellicose bullies
you've sealed ignorant immortalities
with a flawed pen.
... by now you've mastered your cursive
wrapping yourself in curlicue comforts
so natal neglect won't freeze your fears;
you feel the hum of greater grievances
below the grooves you create-
spinning,
spinning...
skating solo from left to right
your mouth may be censored shut,
but your ankles won't give out
above the spinning boots
of momentum.
iii. 1988 Age 13
dear d,
in your hidey-hole,
you fished up excuses
from spending time
alone...with him.
yet you ran, although
no one knew what from,
self preservation
was your propellant,
and shameful secrets
could no longer linger,
beneath photo lenses...
and I watched you from
beneath pond water,
summon syllables that
dared to delve into
forbidden speech...
and finally utter the fears
to another outside of you...
it took courage to break barriers
beneath that icy pewter stare-
and I was proud,
that you finally ... did.
iv. 1990 Age 15
dear d,
... breathe... just breathe.
though grief's garret
has you in its lock...
you are not to blame,
there was no way for you to know
what he would do to himself.
his smile, his face,
will remain in golden halo
of beatific light until the day
you too will leave here-
and though you ask a billion why's
someone must stick around
and play his song...
and I caught you as you crumpled
to the cement, spinning-
spinning in scratches of
long remembered curlicues
across your diary.
you made a promise
to his father...
that your first publication
you would dedicate to his memory.
you will...
you will...
v. 1992 Age 17
dear me,
you locked horns again
and lost leverage...
he aimed his twisted taunts
... just so ...
and cracked you open,
oblong to baseless basins-
lambasted you as lobster,
and tore tears from ghastly grievances,
while labeling you as slut and whore.
slandering slurs followed you,
and you said to fuck himself-
stripped of what few beastly
privileges he would allow,
you walked out that door...
and didn't return.
vi. 1993 Age 18
dear me,
no one else will say it,
so I'll say it with a cupcake
and a single candle
I baked for myself-
congrats for graduating,
congrats also, for giving birth...
as I hug myself, and pat my own
barely reachable shoulder,
I realize these momentous
and celebrity style occasions,
are both hardly worth mention-
at least, as far as others see it.
tumblers of tears are served
in profusion, while I bid goodbye
to the one person, that kept me
sane and on this earth,
for forty-two weeks longer.
the joy and perfection of her,
challenged every notion I had,
despite my misgivings...
and though sage and peppermint tea
will dry the milk from my breasts,
my body and soul, still aches
to bask in the care of her.
to count her fingers and toes,
to smooth her brow, and sing her to sleep...
these will not be mine to savor.
another will take these duties,
and know them as her own.
vii. 1995 Age 20
dear me,
again, I know the pain
of letting go...
my son wants to be here,
and he proved it to me.
his conception was undeniable,
and as more becomes clear,
he wishes to stay with me...
a brave woman shall take my duties,
to protect my noble knight from harm-
as I whisper promise upon the frost,
I blanket my grief in newborn nuances,
and we nourish his stretch and growth
within the temporary tao
-of Pooh and his friends.
viii. 2000 Age 25
dear me,
on the eve of the year,
two-thousand and one,
I died...
in my hypothermic journey,
as polarity of light and dark shifted
crone mother waved from a chair,
and I separated from my silver cord
and touched the face of love.
I felt the merging of all that is,
all that has been, all that will be,
I did not feel the pain and coldness,
instead I felt warmth and palpable heart.
she kissed the press of stirring sight,
and echoed to my essence...not yet.
I was slammed -coughing back
into the vessel, that held wife to husband.
the spark, regenerated
when an earth-born valkyrie
brought me chicken soup in a thermos.
clock face said, I had been gone
for an hour and fifteen minutes.
could one live a lifetime in that span?
do we dream, or are we the dream?
ix. 2005 Age 30
dear me,
I have found out, that I despise
moving so much.
the toil of squishing life's accouterments
into mobile units is taking its toll.
one must leave behind so much,
bits of self -scattered as plane wreckage.
I realize its just excess baggage with no claim receipts.
as my ears pop from slowly ascending altitude,
I also know, home is a mirage.
I will know a new kind of dislike, when I arrive
at our destination.
please return your seats and trays,
to their full backwards and uptight position--
a jobless market and a recession
will be along shortly, to assist you
in finding lower wages and no reprieve
from blinding boredom.
x. 2009 Age 34
dear me,
I have found poet again...
it's been two very challenging years.
I've learned to love despite it all...
cancer couldn't stop me,
and neither could bitching bias.
betrayal rained its petty parade,
and pity parties soaked the trumpets
of shame...and yet I forgave.
while my cursive, can no longer wrap
me in the comforts I once entertained,
I will scrawl my signature on the truth,
as honesty heralds, my voice vindicates me.
the ignorant injustices will be blared loudly,
no more to be brewed boldly,
and birthed to be screamed in silence.
Even if my bones scream of napalm
and the pads of my fingers turn black,
my voice has been sent out-beyond the pond
past grief's grays and sepia's scents,
to lift another heart in grace.
Author notes
A copy/paste jobby, I threw together a couple of weeks ago and haven't posted due to editing concerns. It probably needs a good edit, but... at least it's "something."
...
Comments
1 - 5 of 5
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My dear friend, this is truly a stab into the soul. Each moment here can be seen with such a stark vividness. From some of our chats, I think I can gather enough of each timeframe of this to truly understand much deeper, and for this I ache for your heart. Not of pity, but of compassion. You are strength, whether you would like to think so or not. And you are beauty, both inside and out. I admire you for many reasons, some which I may never be able to explainp; but none the less, I do. Glad to see a post from you, it's been a while. Hope you are well overall.
Sending
s
Storm
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heart wrenching tales of someone. really deep.
good job.
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I like this Sweet Valkyrie
lifetime experiences narrated in such deep emotional way are just priceless...blending lots of contradictories together fear passion failure success and mother hood (the part that i liked most let me tell u
...
just great
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Damn this is deep and very, very good Hettie. You reveal a little more each dying day as breaths taken we can never get back again, and pain released is pain well rid of. The realization of self is hard to bear sometimes yet we must all face it or die insane with denials delusions. I don't think it needs a thing, those who don't understand do not need to. this is just spectacular in every way I think. Scott
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