Sometime, during the maelstrom of the coming collapse on Friday, I scrawled a poem in my journal (at least I didn’t spray paint it on our neighbour’s fence). Once the crash took hold, I wasn’t capable of much, and translating a poem from pencil to type seemed like an impossible task.
So, I’m presenting two poems (3 & 4) and hope this hasn’t disqualified me from octpowrimo. The crises usually arrive later than the first week.
I close my tired, battered eye lids against the brightness of the sun.
I chose to feel the cool touch to the wind not the warmth of sunlight on my shoulders.
Trees transmorph from a thousand shades of green
to million threads of colour
I see only the brown, dry, dead leaves crunkled on the sidewalk
I see the homeless, the beaten, the lost, the dead
I was born to pain, not to enjoyment.
octpowrimo 4: Skrik
Edvard had no plan
to create a skrik
played itself out
on the bridge Tuesday morning.
New mother, taken sickly
for several years
while child thrived
as if one was dying
to keep other alive
First day outside, alone with
no chaperones to see if
she could yet be trusted
that the brain fever had eased.
Somehow, he climbed the railing
as she took a moment, looked away from the railing
away from the wind that was ruffling her cap to tighten the strings
so the bald head of her illness was not exposed.
She heard him laugh. Heard him say “water,” “sailing,” “come see.”
All she saw were the soles of his shoes going over the railing.
No smiling child waving at her, no laughing little person to watch grow
No bouncing with the waves; no hat; no body – gone, gone, gone.
She wrapped each side of her face with her shaking arms
She opened her mouth but nothing came out
Her scream was still, silent, frozen.
How was anyone to know her life just ended?
How could anyone tell her horror?
How could anyone help her son?
Edvard watched as a crowd gathered.
Still no skirk, only silence.
But stance of her body
darting looks at the water
gave the clue.
Off went jackets and hats,
They searched the water and the shore for hours.
All that was found was a hat and shoe identified as his.
She never returned home; a nice rest home became her residence.
Edvard would dream about the silent scream,
the melodrama of a child’s death by a neglectful mother.
He could count her teeth, the number of buttons on her coat, and the look of horror
as if she had seen Hell and what waited for her.
His dreams grew to an obsession.
Evard found her at the home
resting on drugs and locked doors
She continued to have the look of horror
and nodded as if she intuitively they shared the dreams.
She spoke little, though understood what Evard said
So one day he came with his easel, his brushes, pastels, rags
She was propped up in a chair, and almost smiled
So Tuesday afternoons, he visits
Sometimes he paints, sometimes he tries to get her to dance
He reads her stories, poems, newspapers.
He brings her flowers and boxes of candy.
Anything to take that look out of her eyes, and the scream
out of her throat.