Transition

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compassion, imagery, lies, loss, metaphor, passing, reality, Saturday, telephone, the other side, transition, truth, unassuming

Transition

Soft as soft and unassuming seemed the day you stole away. And I wondered: are transitions merely ghosts, spectres, unreal reality? The hoover softly purring on the carpet like a cat with much to do, pondering sleepily if those things can be left for another day. It was just another Saturday. The day after Friday, and the one before Sunday – or so it seemed at the time. So Saturday morning chores filled the moments and as I vacuumed vacantly, the sun shining through lace-adorned windows, my thoughts popped in and out like uninvited guests mimicking the movement of my arm as if stroking an imaginary pet.

And yet, when the telephone rang, I knew before I answered it what I would hear. I wasn’t surprised, not in the least. I had been preparing for this call for longer than I can remember. I cast my mind back and pictured us on a sandy beach with you just out of reach and felt the pang of loss. That holiday was our first and last: the grandmother, the mother, and the child – three generations together, linked by our own expression of what it meant to be family. The path we had trodden to get to the other side now blocked by the greedy, irascible sea, at first calm, luring us closer, now raging higher, threatened to prevent us from going any further. There was no alternative but to climb the steep incline or be drowned, and so mercifully we were spared. But even as we climbed,
the threat of loss hovered on that occasion, just as it did when the telephone rang.

“I think you should come straight away”, the voice was calm and caring.
“Is she …?” The words fell away. Why was I asking? I already knew the answer.
“No”, the voice said. But I knew this was an acceptable twist of the truth. We both knew – better to travel in hope. Silently, I thanked the voice realising that compassion is not a liar.

So, softly you left on a Saturday.

~ Marie Williams – April 2018

Self-Love

Tags

family, growth, imagery, love, poem, poetry, prose poetry, shame, universe, wings

Self-Love

My picture that I drew today was of a butterfly. It could also be an angel. The creature has wings. I have drawn spots on both wings. On one wing there are seven spots and on the other wing there are eight spots. I wrote: “family is important”. But then I scribbled over it because I didn’t want those words on my picture. The words made me feel uncomfortable. They made me feel ashamed, embarrassed and self-conscious. I don’t want to feel like that. I want to feel loved, cared for and very very important and the sun is coming out now and I’m writing faster and faster and I need to feel BIG, HUGE, SPECTACULAR and small again.

Because that is how I know I will grow into being the real me, who is HUGE and talented and fully aware of all that is going on around me. I am pleased to feel that I am progressing. My picture has shown that the small, seemingly insignificant things are just as important or even more important than things I have left behind in my old life.

My old life doesn’t feature now, because it has gone. Exploded! Exploded into a thousand pieces and scattered in the Universe. The Universe has absorbed these pieces and turned them into LOVE. My eyes are moist and shed the tears of a thousand heartaches, these too absorbed by the Universe and sprinkled on the ground below.

~ MEW

Damaged People

Tags

blogging, cruelty, damaged, healing, imagery, metaphor, pain, peace, poetry, tranquility, trauma

Aren’t we all damaged in some way or another?  We all have baggage.  Not one of us can go through life completely unscathed.  Sometimes we do not know what to do with our pain: we hide it, we disguise it, we pretend it didn’t happen.  But no matter how much we try to leave it behind it follows us, manifesting itself in anger, depression, withdrawal.  Let’s care for our damaged brothers and sisters in whatever way we can by recognising their pain and offering love and understanding.

Damaged People

“Damaged people are dangerous”*
Are they really, I reflect
Can this be so, how do you know?
On this bright morning in a country far away
Such sorrow permeates my soul
Does that make me dangerous to know?

A morning of tears, remembered fears
Withering looks from the past
Cut the heart, tear me apart
Pain racked soul heaves my body
Causing me to tremble and shudder

Cruel words spoken with loathing
With no care for the innocent soul
Who listens carefully
And believes this to be truly
The way things could be

No! Damaged people are not dangerous
That simply is a fallacy
And one to be
Disregarded and buried
With past memories in a hurried
And impermeable coffin

Damaged people are to be loved
Taken to your bosom
Allowed to rest there
To be provided with a shady cove
A haven of peace and tranquility

Spoken to as if re-born
Gentle whispers in their ear
Reassuring them there’s no need to fear
That which hurt and broke them
Can no longer stoke the fires of pain

The embers glow now
Softly speaking of
The peace within
That poker no longer
Rakes the healing scars
It is powerless
My tortured soul’s at rest.

*Ouote from the film Damaged

© Marie Williams April 2009