Bump

My baby has a bump.  A growing, wriggling baby bump all her own (and her husband’s).  It delights me.  I believe I may even be enjoying it more than she does; although she’s excited, she has to go through all the rigors of pregnancy.  I see her pictures, each one bigger than the last, now beginning to see the full loom of pregnancy.

Her 30th birthday was yesterday.  She is but a few months off the schedule I had when I gave birth to my first, her brother.  She waited until later, as did I.  I’d give anything to be there with her but economics is one reality I simply can’t avoid.

I look at her pictures and see this thriving adult, about to enter an entirely life-changing chapter of her life, and can’t help but see in my mind’s eye the little girl she once was.  I wonder if it ever truly leaves a mother.  Are my children always going to be my babies?  Or, will I allow them to grow up?

Not too long ago it was me telling them, in succinct terms,  not to parent me.  Our relationships are so much better since we passed that hurdle.  But I wonder if I am trying to claim ownership of them even as they are fully adult, with mortgages and spouses, college loans and now a baby.  Is it that I am so far away that I hold fast to their childhoods, something I can connect with despite the miles between us?

I am so blessed.  Even though I can’t see them often, every 1 1/2 years or so, I have a great relationship with both my children and their spouses.  We talk every week, sometimes more, and my son still calls every time he is sick to ask what he could be doing to feel better.  He called yesterday saying, “I’m dying Mom, what can I do more for this sinus infection?”  There were few words I could share as he had already learned the lessons of previous sinus traumas.

My daughter is taking such good care of herself.  An avid runner, she is not doing so, preferring gentle pregnancy yoga.  I wish I could be there for her, taking care of their baby.  I’d move there now if not for the exorbitantly high rents in her area.  She plans on working after maternity leave.  Her husband plans to care for the baby while studying for his Divinity Masters.

If only the world went according to my plan.  But until then, I’ll have to depend on God’s timing and will.  And be content.

A Wrinkle

A wrinkle
slit depression in my skin
lying slightly off plum
so I find myself mirror hopping
seeking whether it will fall
hanging down like a drunken sailor
whose feet are mired in netting,
or extend out as crow’s feet.
Deep sighs abound
for I’d rather have
the illusion of something
created by laughter
than the droop of a line
dragged down by depression.
I suppose it is inevitable
in its coming
I am aging . . .
my body clearly shows it,
gravity worked its travesty
But I can forget my body
in my mind’s eye
so quick to forgive and forget
it does not fit the mind’s image
But in a mirror capture
of my reflection, there is
no hiding from the inevitable
so that slight depression
is acknowledgment no amount
of glitter will ever fool others
into believing this old hag
ain’t gonna be kickin’ those heels
in any young girl’s dance

Purging the Soul

Only now can she say
her soul has been purged
scraped raw, exorcizing
that which is best left behind

She has slumbered long
passing through months
followed by years
with the faintest of life-giving energy

Perhaps the past held its  merits
but those were not honored
and in the deepest, darkest night
merged with dreams as fools fodder

Awakening comes with acknowledgment
those omissions raucously colliding
with acts of substance

How does she feel anything less
than complete and utter shame?
her days are more numbered
than most and having less

She sees her squandered actions
Her thefts of objects, honor and time
so trivial, yet from desecration
comes her only hope of renewal

Let it come . . .

Anorexia

In the space between two breaths
she is caught unaware, unknowing –
having spent a short lifetime
eternally busy, frenetically paced
always in motion,
never internally directed –
she is lost, adrift,
her skills and talents
not having prepared her
for rejection, for misdirected words –
she has never allowed
for this contingency,
Who is she beyond the accolades,
the activities, the endless
leadership roles –
what lies beneath?
What feelings exist
in her picket fenced heart
which let in undulating waves
of anguish
filtering out love, trust, kindness.
Like a drug she moves
in perpetual motion –
running, leading, moving, teaching
no reflection of hows or whys
attempting to fill the void with verbs,
no static, resolute exploring
of hidden secrets and mysteries
which hold the heart’s true measure.
No breaking through the resistance.
The moments have arrived
when razor sharp clarity
begs for expression,
where it chips away subterfuge
so real work can begin,
to explore the dim reaches of the soul
to enter terms with
the bald face of reality,
finally unmasked, stripped,
laid bare, but . . .
will she take
the proffered challenge
to grow, or backpedal,
rewind the inner tape
until she can splice, edit,
a produce a facsimile
of the original in its unedited form,
honoring the pain motion covered
the fear leadership masked,
the need unhinged in teaching,
all the imports of a life
skated over in terror and avoidance

Your Rage

You – so full of youthful righteousness
from resolve etched in fear
slipping down the planes and lines
of your furrowed brow
glowering your rage and frustration
despair flung out, rolling in waves
warding off the heavens
with its glad tidings
and earnest appeal
granting no access within
wanting only to ward off all
who might crack through
that thin veneer and reach
the fragile underpinnings
of your heart
Try to remember dear one
all words are not weapons
some hold elements of honesty
to the eyes and mind of another

You are safe
though you choose to fear it
your childlike emotions
do not threaten me
Safe may not look like you
envisioned it
but safe nonetheless
You are loved little one
You are loved

In Dreams there are no dreams

In dreams, there are no dreams
tumbling out of your mind –
crystalized to diamond hard planes,
or blurred and fuzzy about the edges,
elusive and faint
upon the gossamer wings of a moth.
No dream waking moments
when you have a step in one world
and one in another.
Not quite sure which is
most worthy of pursuit,
or which needs following
from one moment
to the next.
Dreams of great import.
In dreams life is stable
makes a weird kind of sense
that seems to matter greatly
in morning’s dawn
but fades as dusk grows nearer.
My dreams carry through my days
yet still I wonder why
in dreams there are no dreams

Misgivings

And what legacy have I left you
my golden skinned son
of radiant bein?
Not one that led to
where your feet tread today
with a lightness of being
I can’t begin to imagine
The dark side
when I gave you up
too readily
I can’t recompense
for all those days lost
punishments held or withheld
lessons discussed and learned
hugs – of so many hugs –
lost, not to be recaptured
my legacy of misplaced love
and weak-kneed frustration

Crone Status

I no longer look for Mr. Right,
can’t envision him in my space
can’t see myself naked under the light,
not the vision to behold
I care to share.

The man I might want
has nothing to do with this reality,
wouldn’t be attracted
to this hag worn body
ragged at the seams
creaking joints making
a cacophony of noise

Looking back –
I skated the edge
of marginalization
for more years
then I care to admit.
Looked at life darkly
groveled, debased myself,
making self-pity an art form

But now I am willing to shoulder
crone status and its implications.
No young God will warm my bed
I take comfort in its space
in wearing old, worn bedclothes
with no one looking askance at me

My body can make all the noises
a symphony makes
sore bones moaning
arthritis crackling.
Cat curled against my back
on inky dark, windswept nights.

The Scheduler

He does his job,
sitting at a metal framed desk,
surrounded by femininity –
efficiently, perfunctorily,
satisfactorily –
and yet, his eyes
look at the others,
flat, snake eyes
staring back
with no reflection,
no depth, empty
beneath the color . . .
and I feel a vague nausea
caught by those eyes
and think, this is a man
who would kill without
blinking, for beneath
there is nothing
but mechanical precision
devoid of soul,
lacking compassion,
as he fills his cases,
sending caregivers
to the care given,
without heart,
his eyes a blank surface
leaving nothing behind
but the rustling whisper
of a snake
moving through the reeds
intent on its prey.

Sibilant Murmurs

In the still, soft calm of silence,
the soul speaks its sibilant murmur
so hard to hear in the clangor
and clash of daily life –
in the quiet of night,
when the only sound
is the fountain of water
my fish play in –
I listen . . . for in those brief
moments, so precious and rare,
does the ring of truth sound
clearest – finding its way
past jangled nerves
and knotted, choked synapses
bringing the wisdom I seek,
the strength which I draw
from a wellspring of heart,
coming through to renew
my sense of vision
and lend credence to my reflections,
softly, gently guiding down
my troubled path of life

The place where I dump the stuff that's inside my head.

Geetha Balvannanathan's Blog - Isis Tratum

Poems, thoughts, healing, other art works (pictures, songs and videos not made by me belong to their authors, the rest being mine) © 2010-2046

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