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.

 

 

Place

Detroit

The pull of place
on frayed strings
attached to faded memories
and beating hearts
gnawed upon by time
and childhood traumas
holds strong
even now.

She looks back
on loosened ties
in so many places
the happy moments
the kisses and farewells
the many ends
of many beginnings
each thought to be the one
that would tame
the longing
forever.

It is a haunting
that echoes
down a winding trail
of silvered hair
and dried up tears
roaming
searching
driven
and blind—
une force majeure
so terribly misunderstood
by those who would have her
bound and chained to a hell
more closely resembling their own.

But the “nomad” knows
she is not that
and now it has come to this—
a place where a bridge
spans a river
so fresh and new
in its familiarity
linking this time
with that place
in her memory
where fragile roots
were torn so violently
from their knowing
and she is finally home.

A little background:

Some years ago it occurred to me that “chemistry” was a pretty interesting concept. We often talk about finding pair bonds with our fellow humans and the role that chemistry has in successful unions. People are drawn to each other, or not.

For me the chemistry theory also applies to our relationship with place. For example, over the years I’ve lived in over a dozen cities and towns. Some were great, but there were others in which over time I began to develop a sense of angst—like I knew I wasn’t supposed to be there and it just wasn’t “my place.” This had nothing to do with friends because I’ve always had the good fortune of finding great friends everywhere, which made leaving all the harder.

I also believe that place of origin (or place of birth) imprints on the souls of young children. I was five and a half when my father died and my mother moved us from Detroit to Timmins. Those two places could not be more different. It never ever was my plan to remain in such a remote northern community with brutal winters to raise a family of my own, so at age eighteen I packed my bags and hightailed it south… then west, then east again, then north, etc., zigzagging around the country.

Now after ten years in North Bay, I’m living in Windsor just across the river from my birthplace. I remember so much from my childhood—although more like a vivid dream—and I cross over to explore Detroit as often as I can. Every time I get over there my heart just leaps with joy. It’s hard to describe, but I suppose I’ve finally found my place.

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.