The Destroyer

Dagger eyes
accusing voice
perpetually poised
to attack and crush
the one she fiercely claims
to love
to everyone else

I wait
for the sweet soft magic
of a tender look
of a kindly word
I wait
and wait

I ask
and wait
while silver tendrils
grow long
at my temples
and the object
of my desire
denies
the object
of her love
access
to her stone cold castle
where she crouches
armed
ready to destroy
the one she so fiercely claims
to love
to everyone else

Yesterday I stumbled across a poem that I wrote in 2013 when I was going through an extremely painful time. It took almost a year to grieve and let go of a lifetime of unfulfilled expectations, and to finally move forward with compassion and dignity. I thought she couldn’t get to me anymore and have continued reaching out to her, but from a less vulnerable place. It was her 83rd birthday a few days ago, and well… I guess she got to me.

It’s time to re-read my books:

Trapped in the Mirror by Elan Golomb

The Four Agreements by Miguel Ruiz

And anything by Eckhart Tolle helps a lot too. If you’ve come across any other books that deal with difficult parent/child relationships, please share them here. Thank you, and may love and kindness shine upon you today and every day.

 

 

In Memory of . . .

A young father…
so gone.

A young mother…
so unyielding in her withholding.

A young child…
so bewildered
so lonely
so lost.

Then in time
and more time…

She found her loves
at his feet
she saw her father
on his knees
in her heart
in her mind
and in her twisted deliverance of the babe that was lost.

Innocent…
so broken,
so tragic,
so nothing but echoes
of silent screams
never delivered
against blue and yellow paleness
and still
so misunderstood
she is alone.

In memory of my father who died in a car accident in 1963, and in memory of my infant son who I found dead in his crib early Easter Sunday morning in 1987.

Requiem for a Grandmother

Mother
I saw them yesterday . . .
papery hands
at euchre tables
laying down hearts
and memories of another time
when bleeding was a different colour
and young women howled fiercely at the moon
with newborn babes clutched tightly at their breasts.
 
I saw them yesterday . . .
in silvery disguises
covering their hearts
with diamonds
and thin-lipped smiles
half-heartedly masking
the haunting of loneliness
and lost children.
 
Where is the place where grandmothers go to weep?
 
I am awake in the dark
lost in raw knowing
that these scars were carved
fresh and deep
to remind me that
I am still . . .
 
A mother.

by Michelle LaRiviere

September 24th, 2014
Windsor, Ontario