poetry – Page 9 – Charlottes Art

For Piper

Tender as dew
Impetuous as rain
When you were born
I knew life would never be tame

With the allure of a blackberry Bush
Sweetest fruit you do proffer
But tough as the barbs and woody stem
So many facets on offer

Hiding, under a mane of spun gold
The fairest maiden by far
You are both subtle and bold
A spirit that will never grow old

Eyes that smile and decorate our day
Yet a character barely formed
I sit and wait for you to find your way
My golden child you will never be bored

Like the brightest star in the constellation overhead
You twinkle with mirth and allure
You leave my heart brimming in good stead
At once bold and demure

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March 9

I am a mother, often left not knowing the well-being or the whereabouts of my daughters. My
daughters were made to believe their mother was a terrible person that didn’t love her children,
that I chose something, anything else over them, that I was somehow unfit, abusive and crazy.
Their heads were filled with outright lies about their past, their little minds tasked with rewriting
of their history. Neither my girls nor myself were afforded the opportunity to be present in each
other’s lives for a long and important period of their lives. No matter the intentions, what my ex
husband has done to both his daughters and me is wrong. Why did he do this? He has
exacted his revenge down to the last, because I left him due to years of abuse, because I was
afraid my girls were going to witness the total unraveling of their mother at his will and his
hands.

The saddest thing of all, is that when the shoe was on the other foot, so to speak, and I
first left my now ex husband in 2009 (we ended up reconciling), my then attorney recommended
I go for full custody and I flat out refused. I explained I would never do that to my daughters or
him. I saw it as selfish and cruel… no matter his character or actions. Depriving a child of their
parent is unfair and damaging in the extreme. My girls tell me that when they ask him why they
cannot see me more often, or why I cannot do some activity with them, he blames Dr. Drutman,
or the Judge.. but never looks them in the eyes and give them the truth. The truth is he is to
blame for this misery, this great loss. He is the reason they miss their mother. He can never
not win, nor can he take ownership of his actions.

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March 9

The night that refused darkness

The moon was so bright tonight, so full of himself.. casting crisp moonshadows on the landscape awash in a pallor of blue. The stars refused to yield and they somehow shone just as bright glistening like priceless gems by candlelight. The owls sang their courtship..”who cooks for you?”; Then a sudden movement out of the corner of one’s eye as they would glide silently from point to point until their plaintive questions turned into a raucous belly laugh upon reuniting. This bawdy festival of celestial and bestial bonhomie continued as the moon slipped overhead with a glare of eerie proportions as he conducted himself. He made the horses in the paddocks restless, and me too. I found even my dim eyes could perceive my progress across the field to find the smell of horses and quiet munching. I reached out a hand to find the warmth of large bodies and a smooth summer coat. I leaned in, and the mare leaned back to greet me. I stood for awhile, hands flattened and skimming her coat until I was sure to have the delightful smell of horse left on my hands. Then I bid her goodnight and picked my way by moonlight back to my door, through the throng of owls belly laughing in the bath of blue light. Upon crawling in bed I relished the smell of horses that clung to my hands and finally found sleep on a night that plainly refused to be dark.
CvWG 9/2019
The night that refused darkness

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March 9

Emotional darkness swallows hope and innocence

Poetry night, so bear with me;

Emotional darkness swallows hope and innocence

It is said that light and darkness can’t occupy the same space at the same time, but I know that
it can.

Oil and water, when mixed, form millions of tiny circles, as the hydrophobic properties of oil close
it off from the aqueous solution. Still, they stand together, in the same space, at the same time.
As is true of life and the human condition, emotional darkness swallows hope and innocence.

Then, shortly after, the reverse is true. What’s to become of the one who sees the two exist at
the same time? Light, existing parallel to the dark like oil on top of water. The soul of the
onlooker caught in between the two layers, staring at them both in confusion and awe.

Very few have experienced the phenomenon of light being forced to hold hands with the dark.

Neither moving. Going not forward, nor backwards. Not up or down. Just….still. I tell you it’s got
every resemblance to holding one’s breath indefinitely. Waiting for God to say “BREATHE!”; Yet,
the command never comes. Blind faith and exhausting loyalty sustain the lost who continue to
wait to breathe.
CvWG

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March 9

My Reflections Are Dark

My reflections are dark, in this room of many books and precious things, dark as the
mahogany that holds my treasured books. I realize they are only precious to me…but
precious nonetheless.

Who wants rocks and animal skulls carefully cleaned to gleam
white in their mortifying smiles? Who cares for the packed shelves, slightly foxed
antique books two deep, on obscure subjects most would not even find diverting in a
passing way? Why would anyone find pleasure in the bits and bobs, little treasures from
my excursions into the wild, to faraway places? I seem always come home with pockets
full of rocks and flowers pressed betwixt the pages of some old book gleaned from a
church bazaar whilst wandering in the North York Moors. What does it matter to
anyone else?

Well it matters to me; these are the treasures of a lifetime. All acquired
lost in the woods, one with the moment at hand. I do not think I will ever make sense to
most folks, but if I could make sense to myself….

Life is mysterious; it is like a forest- from far off it seems a unity. It can be
comprehended, described, but upon closer inspection it begins to separate…to break
into light and shadow, the density blinds one. Within there is no form, only prodigious
detail that reaches everywhere: exotic sounds, spills of sunlight, verdant foliage, fallen
trees, small beasts that flee the sound of a twig snap, insects, silence, and even epiphytes
and flowers. The detail is more than enough to distract. The vertical of trees, the crazed
silhouette of fine branches on the sky, pools of small life, the endless game trails that
lead to nowhere….

All of this, dependent and closely woven, is deceiving. We are layer upon layer like the
noble forest. There are two kinds of life, there is the one you believe you are living, and
there is the other one so subtle it cannot be taken in. It is the other that causes the
trouble. The other we long to see….

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February 1

Conversations with Nature

Conversations with a butterfly

As I sat on my back patio today, a purple spotted butterfly came by. He landed at my feet. And I admired him in the sunshine in all of his glory blue and red markings. For some reason, I guess since I had no one else to talk to or maybe all the horses and dogs and cats had heard enough of me for one day, I struck up a conversation with this lovely butterfly.

I said to him, and it was definitely a male, Nature has vanity he had all the reasons to be vain. For he was indeed a beautiful specimen, to be admired by all eyes that cast upon him. I thanked him for coming by that day as I needed a little pick-me-up that I hope he has done his job well, and I hope that I would see his progeny in the coming months and years.

As if to thank me for my compliments, he came and lit on the tip of my finger as it rested on my leg. Surely, he could not know what I was saying and surely I could not know what he was saying back. Yet for fleeting moment, it felt as if we had an understanding.. I wish them well as he took slide again and sat there marvelling at all of the charms of nature.

CvWG

July 2019

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December 27

Driving

In the late winter evening she passes familiar landmarks. The traffic is thick but moving. The stores are clotted with people. The flashes of eye-catching signs making for distraction. It is dusk now, she is moving into the country… Headed home on the long curving stretches, lost in thought, egged on by the music on the radio. By the time she crossed the river the trees were black silhouetted by the deep blue of twilight. She flew along, in the left lane only, above the limit, tired and wistful , filled with plans. Her eyes stung with tears held back. On the seat behind her were bags of groceries, on the floor were gas slips, parking tickets stub, dog leashes and water bowls, mail that had never been opened, bills. Every scrap of paper filled with near illegible ramblings of her prolific muddled mind. Penned at stoplights, in carpool, and even braced on the steering wheel while headed down the highway. All left on the floorboards to be trampled underfoot. Maybe the trampling of her thoughts serves her right.

The road runs along the throat of the mountains, for most of the way there is no house visible, not a store, nothing except the long galaxy of distant houses on the hillside beginning to shine in the dark. She turns from the main road onto a side street. She sees houses she knows intimately without any idea who lives in them. She sees parked cars she recognizes, a wooden fence with the same rail missing, the same two dogs tied and looking lonely in the same backyard. She is nearing home, but she doesn’t want to go, she wants to keep driving. Driving till the street lights run out, till there is nothing but country. She wants to find a pasture somewhere and lie down in the dark to scream at the stars. She wants to accuse the satellites of mimicry. She wants to feel cold ground on her back; she wants to feel something, anything but this. She wants to breathe, she wants space unlimited. If she let go of the wheel, the car would surely take her there. She rakes her fingers through her long hair in a frustrated moment. She rubs her nose, and then wipes her eyes angrily. The tears flow now, and she hates the tears. She wonders if she could go to the barn this late, would they detect her? Huddled in a stall somewhere, her face buried in a sympathetic mane. She craves the smell of soothing horses and calm, quiet munching; the occasional shift of weight, swish of tail, anything to soothe her. She would stay there all night if she could… Hiding like a naughty child.

But here is her turn, and she dutifully puts on her blinker. She regrettably makes the turn for home. She steadies herself for the onslaught…whether intended or not, it will be waiting for her…it always is.