Every time … but it never is.
Every time a car slows by the house,
I run to see if it’s you.
Anytime my phone rings,
I hope it’s you.
When Facebook says I have a message,
I pray it’s you.
But it’s never your car.
Never your call.
Never your message.
Every time … but it never is.
But it is always … sadness.
Always pain.
Always grief.
Always tears.
And every time …
it is always
alone.
I am no soldier
and yet
the battle of life
found me
Here I lie
beaten
broken
bruised
stabbed through the heart
my soul bleeding
Death
circling silently
I feel his breath
This helmet
which should have been
my salvation
brings only meager protection
in this unexpected
onslaught
My breastplate
in all its righteous glory
surprises me
offering little protection
from the fire-laden arrows
of my enemies
of my children
The sword in my hand
so firm and sure
fell heavily to the ground
and now lays still
I am too weak
to raise it again
My shield
made of stretched hide
now moth-eaten
riddled with holes
useless
its beauty
and emblems
faded
beyond recognition
These shoes
once rugged and sturdy
now worn through
I feel painfully
each rock
each stone
each thistle
each step
each agony
Oh, how I wish to walk in peace again.
Pitifully — under
a great soldier’s helmet
a cricket sings
Photo by placardmoncoeur at MorgueFile.com
today
I thought of you
I remembered
your innocence
your grace
your gentleness
your faith
your love
and I wished
wished with
everything in me
for it all
to come back
for you
to come back
but you’ve changed
moved on
no longer a child
now a woman
a woman
who no longer
desires the faith
or the family
of your childhood
today
as your mother
the one
left behind
I cried
Photo by kamuelaboy at morguefile.com
I wish I cried gracefully
dabbing tears softly
a quiet sniffle
a gentle sob
a lone teardop streamng silently
but not me
nope, I’m an ugly crier
a snot-stained pillowcase
a pile of soggy Kleenex
much more my style
As ugly and snotty and noisy
as my crying may be
the grief behind it
is no less profound
than the gentlest sob
of a lovelier crier
bent gracefully
over the tear-stained pages
of an unfinished
handwritten
diary entry
The Estranged Mom 