Category Archives: Inside Me

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

Music soothes the sorrowing soul

Music, melodious, bluesy,
tingling, tinkling
nape of neck
curling about spine
down to its lowest rung
easing, soothing,
breaking free shackles
of discontent
hours, maybe days or months
in the making.
Music gives pause
to daily life,
makes the heartbeat
to a different rhythm
then one just moments previous.
Of God’s many gifts
surely music is
among the very best
giving the chance
of a shift in perspective,
an ability to see nuances
just recently hidden.
the capacity to regroup,
rewrite the verses of the soul
into ones so much more
palatable, serene, life-giving.
With the dawn
of a new day
the voice rises in song
to match Nature’s heartbeat
and rejoice in being.
Music soothes the sorrowing soul.

 

 

Disappointment

Disappointment is the muck I drag myself through.  It eats my days into brown sludge.  I am mired in the cloying, pervasive debris as it washes over me and search as I might, sometimes I can’t find my way clear of it.  For many, the Holiday Season is cloaked in it.  What might be a time of Joy is a quagmire of dusty dreams and disappointed disheartenment.

The days to come bring dollar signs and an unconscious acknowledgement the coming days will bring low lights, not highlights.  Even though   my family and friends love me, they are wrapped in their own dynasties and can’t make time to comprehend my place in their worlds.  The wet blanket covering me is off putting. I need to remember that.  They are a reflection of what they see in me.  They glance at me and their eyes slide away.  I’m barely there or perhaps too much there, soaking in their perceived rejection, whether real or not.

As the leaves dance merrily as they flit down to the road I am driving, I have to give homage to the day when life glowed.  Although always the quiet, guarded one, I once found joy in the Holidays.  Thanksgiving meant the “Macy’s Parade”, “Babes in Toyland”, and finally “Miracle on 42nd Street” as a child.  Then I would join my people for a feast.  Mom would always invite others in need to join us.  I’d help with the mountain of dishes.  Night would bring a turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce sandwich before bed. Some years we would pile into the car and head over to my Aunt’s.  One year my sister and I were in the back of the station wagon.  I had on a peasant dress I loved.  Dawn got car sick and threw up all over my front.  I jerked back, falling into the pies. As a Mother myself, I took pleasure in fulfilling some of those memories with my own family.

Christmas had a magic of its own.  On Christmas Eve Dad would read the miracle of Christ’s Birth from the Bible after Church.  One year I woke extremely early and tried to go downstairs but my Father made me come into their room and sleep next to them . . . when I tried to slip out, he put his leg over mine and went back to sleep.  Another year as I was a teenager, he was drunk and fell into the tree.  But most of the time it was precious.  We would excitedly open presents, although some years my parents had to make some last-minute changes since my sister would have switched the labels on mine and hers if she liked mine better.  There would be another feast and we’d loll away the rest of the day.  I delighted in bringing Christmas to my own family.  One year my husband and the kids fell asleep in the living room as I watched “The Nutcracker” and I felt such peace.

Now, older, living alone, and more tired, I don’t take pleasure in the Holidays as I used to.  I cook my side dishes and head over to my sister’s house and try to watch the Parade.  Sometimes I have to work instead of celebrating.  The Magic of the Holidays has faded under the mantle of my Depression.  Going through the motions would be a more accurate description.  Pleasure is rare for me, laughter even more.  The days are chores to be done gotten over, to fade into Disappointment.  I wish I could change my attitude but it is likely to end up as it has for some time now.  I have to accept my reality and go with the flow so I am not making waves.

Failure

There is a name I call myself
thrust down deep, not voicing aloud
for fear it will be more outwardly
manifest – Failure.

Others may call me Strong,
Committed, Spirited, Feisty,
Pushing through the Dark Times
to come through Stronger.
Pointing out the accomplishments
I have made, the great gains
managed at high cost.

But inside I know
there were other choices
which could have made me
Great, Successful, Healthy
not clothed in Fear –
and so, the bottom line
is that of Failure.

Caught in a Web

Caught in a web
of her choosing
she stands alone –
an allusive enigma
apart from the rest –
friend to most
lover to none

Coquettish teasing
in provocative glances
stream from her eyes –
hips betraying the desire
for passion in their sway
while manner reserved.
She speaks words
of kindness for each one
who crosses her path

Therein lies the reality.
For though each word
is meant –
that underlying need
tugging at her breast
speaks of emotions
far stronger than others
are willing to seek.

So alone she blends
with many
but leaves once again
to return an empty vessel
to the cocooning warmth
of a lonely bed –
sheets becoming
imaginary lovers
caressing her skin.

Ping Pong

Up and down, down and up,
go the fortune’s
of my life.
Why believe in what
tomorrow foretells
when down and up
it will inevitably
be vastly different
than where I hung
my hat just a day ago.

Up I believed a move
was in the offing –
down no longer there.
Hope waved
in fragrant breezes
only to hang in tatters
so soon before the
supposed finale.

Nothing is real
until you walk the path.
Talking is just dreaming,
lacking substance,
planning does not
make it real.

I’m just the Velveteen Rabbit
watching my ball bounced
up and down, down and up,
always in another’s hand.

 

Who am I?

Who I am
is not of my making
yet not one facet
would I change

I have been pruned,
molded, cast by specific
hands in certain ways –
chipped and whittled
rough edges curling,
splintering off to lie
in abandoned heaps
on the floor.

Now I await
the varnishing, staining
with special dyes,
buffing and polishing.
I am almost whole
but the hands of
a master craftsman
has yet to enter
the production room
for finishing touches.

Who are you?

Who are you –
the child I have
never known?
I hear your laughter
sparkling and fanciful tones
rich and vibrant
or your anger
tempetuous, lightening
flashes of a summer storm.

I gaze with rapt amazement
at your studied countenance
taking every detail
into account as you
memorize each facet
of your existence.
A pack-rat, stuffing
incidentals into corners
for future use.

I listen to your
flamboyant giety
both mocking and
relishing the life
you call your own.
Sizzling in the excitement
of the moment.

You are . . .
a treasured gift
never allowed to bloom
until playing dress-up
was no longer a game
. . . you are
part of me.
Rarely acknowledged,
always sought.

 

Party Plans

She said “Get out there and mingle”.  What a laugh.  I mingle with the food.  The people, well now that’s a different story.  In the midst of all these smiling people, I stand.  Gazing off into nowhere I shift positions but feel the earth’s muck holding my feet fast in the grassy way of the yard.  People give welcoming smiles but I can’t respond.  I hold myself fast.  I nod, smile, and walk on.

Finally, the food comes.  This I can do only too well.  I grab a seat and listen to others talk, occasionally  offering a verbal tidbit.  I try, really I do.  But I am so very uncomfortable among people.  They seem to have so little in common with me, although I realize if I gave them a chance, there are those who would be interesting and I would have something in common with.  Finding them in the cacophony of voices is quite more than I can manage.  I have been alone too long.

So I stay the requisite hour and a half and give my goodbye to the hostess.  She worked so hard preparing house, food and yard for this.  I spent three hours the day before to help prepare.  But I have fulfilled my obligatory time and hasten to the car, driving directly home where my cat and I have quiet for the rest of the evening.

Demon Lover

You were my demon
always controlling
demanding your opinions
become mine

Rewrite my script
no longer my Mother’s
dictates, my Father
following meekly behind
making her choose,
decide, direct –
didn’t she ever tire
of all the wretched decisions
in her impossible world.

Yet here I was
meekly following
with a stirring of resistance
that refused to rise
to the surface –
just let him make decisions
then he has the blame
when they fail.

I was so culpable
gullible, tortured,
yet wielding
the whip –
demanding his choice
falling on my own sword.

The pattern continued
for so long
now broken,
but so are the dreams.
I am responsible,
but I lost so much
to gain myself.