Only in Nightmares

They came
insinuating themselves
into my life,
shooting words of venom
into my mind . . .
raked my soul,
over flames of hot coals,
tortured my flesh,
with ill founded barbs,
stripped me of known attachments
to live in a world alien
to my understanding,
putting shackles on my spirit,
and now . . .
only now . . .
they are the nightmares
I dream but from which
I awaken.

A Child’s Perspective

Daddy rages, Mommy cries,
What about me?
the little child sighs.

No home for my own
yet I have two.
Never alone
but always lonely.
Mourning for one
while with the other.
Never enjoying
without feeling guilt.

I have my spaces.
My objects surround me,
yet I can’t remember
where my teddy bear is.
Is it here or there?

I want two kisses goodnight
from two people –
not the bemused, exhausted
brush of one’s lips
on my brow.

No one asked me
when the choice was made.
I got the leftovers.

Small wonder I am scared,
so angry I want nothing more
than to strike out
at the ones I love most.
Hear me . . .
when can I speak?

yet I can’t remember
where my teddy bear is.
Is it here or there?

Molestation

(There are so many children ruined by evil hands.
Their lives tainted, stolen from them. I have heard
so many stories, seen families decimated, by one person.
It is for them I write this)

He touched the children
and forever their lives were changed.
The guise of caring
deluded, seduced their trust,
their innocence
to hands seeking pleasures
subversive to their needs.

Rage isn’t enough
for one such as he.
Brutal accounting
can’t take back
the one thing most lost . . .
the fragile bloom of freshness
born in the eyes
of the young
to renew the lives
of all they meet.

He touched the children
and tainted their souls.
A caress of seeming guidance,
stole naivete’
from their basic inheritance,
the effects rippling away
to rest on all
who lived on the periphery
of their precious lives.

He touched the children,
and within them,
they were children
no longer.

Seeds

Within her lie the seeds of life
from the moment of first breathe
and earlier while still in the womb
all the babies she will ever carry
waiting until the time
when they will take their place
within the world.
Each wounding, each hurt, each trauma,
is inflicted not just on her
but on the next generation –
the legacy continuing
before they ever take
their first breath.

Within and beyond

Everything crowds in,
the noise, the clamor of people
moving through their lives,
touching but untouched,
feeling but not felt,
somnambulists in a dance
of private reckoning,
cascading into aloneness,
remote, isolated,
awash in the debri
of scattered necessities,
one thing rising upon
the ashes of another,
over and over again,
as we drift through
our separate realities
thinking, deceptively,
that we are connected.

The voices of others
chafe beneath my skin,
their needs, expectations,
burdens upon which I dwell
in meaningless observance.
Their voices drown my own,
grate, chafe.
Their voices drown my own,
grate, overwhelm,
and the voice within cries
for peace, solitude, relief,
from the unending stream of demands.
Yet still I wonder
if it is all those voices
which are burdening me so,
or just the echo within
of unsolvable problems,
which knaw at me,
day after blinding day,
in unending procession.
as

Shadow Play

Words are vultures
come to gnaw the last
bit of meat from bone.
They strip away
all reason,
the seductive embrace
of imaginings.
Words are a shadow play
where the figures cast
are illusions, and the
substance of reality
is overshadowed.

Words are binders
in the glue.
holding tight one object
to another, locked
in contracts non-negotiable.
Tread carefully
when words are spoken,
your soul is up for sale
and will be gone
if freely given to . . .
words.

Guilt Mongers

For some guilt is swallowed whole,
in great, gooey masses
with slurping; licking the last drop,
smacking the lips in satisfaction
for it gives them a reason
to exist, ponder . . . mea culpa.
Like beggars with a coveted treasure
they scurry off
to some dark corner
to examine and relive
the moments in truth
they alone live with.
And stare witless,
uncomprehending,to those
who don’t relish its pleasures
who commit acts of travesty
with nary a backward glance.
And the guilt mongers
squander their catch,
knowing there is always more
where that came from.

A Memory in Time

He carries the children
from the car,
holding them close,
so close to their breath
one last time
before he leaves.

She waits at the stair
as she has waited
for some time now,
anxious to kiss
their little faces,
hold them close
and tuck them into bed.

He gets into the car,
starts the engine with a sigh,
and pulls away,
leaving them behind.
And she watches
with eyes of regret
and turns into a home
they do not share.

Each going to separate
destinations,
but with part of their hearts
going to the other . . .
Divorce . . .
an emptiness of memories.

Winter of my Soul

To the winter of my soul I come,
hypnotic mists encircling me
in quixotic rhythms unknown
to one as humble as I.
To the edge of the abyss
yawning deep before
my trembling toes
as they inch closer and closer
to its inky depths.
Into the moments a whisper floats,
“Draw back, remember,
your life is not your own . . .
soon, so soon, comes spring,
rebirth the inevitable answer
to destruction
but hold fast the memory
of the moments on the precipice
as reminders of the cycle,
when next your toes shall dangle
at the edge of the abyss
in the winter of your soul.”

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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