My Hopes, Memories and Dreams

Posts tagged “relationships

Skin to Skin

You lend me your softness

so that

I might remember

the gentleness

that resonates

from touch

skin to skin

and back again

A heaving

of dark days

folded in upon itself

unwinding

amongst the tangles

of

eggshell blue

Egyptian cotton

Your tenderness

spills

like liquid silk

creating rapids

along each softened ridge

to refill

my languishing

vessel

 


Ebb and Flow

Like a line in the sand                          

You draw me to you…

Each grain of tender energy

Leaves trails

Along the valleys

of breath intertwined

then, exhaled

To settle

Between the ebb and flow

of the gentle, knowing tide

that binds us


Pierced through the Heart

Your absence strikes

Like a needle

Pierced straight through the heart

Desire

        Loss

Craving

…the inaccessible…

Patterns that bleed

Through each year

Each month

    Week

        Day

            Moment

Of the tapestry

That is

My Childhood Story

Those knots

in my stomach

…Stitched so tight

Leave gaping holes

In my core

My sense of love

for myself

So intrinsically linked

        With

                You


Man oh Man !

Men of courage, honour and resolve
Mere fantasies created
Through stories once told
Whilst here stand before me
Boys parading
in grown men’s bodies

Size ten boots
Boast of lands conquered
Yet rolled up sleeves
belie the frayed seams
Of the Self and Soul
…That read like a little black book
Scrawled with every nameable insecurity

With lips pursed
To contain my disappointment
(For no hero exists to slay the troll)
I send another on his way
…Those desert eyes…
To lap at some other oasis of need
No such mirage engulfs my energy
For with the autonomy of every womanly muscle
I must drag forth the resolve
To be my own protector
my own husband
…my own father


Pathways

On tiptoe we tread
Tentatively tracing
New stepping stones
Before us
Hesitancy seeks to confirm
The offerings
of
Wholeness

With magnetic force
the mystery of possibiliites
Draws us deeper
   …Closer
Clock ticking
Heart trembling
To step…
………or to Leap ?


An Open Door

Sometimes

Friends blow in

Their warm words

Stroking

the skin

 

Whispers of kindness

Chasing the shadows

Of

Past doubts

That linger

Within

 


Good Night Papa Bear

Grizzly-Cub-and-Father

“Good night Baby Bear”.

“Night Papa Bear”, I respond as the closing door takes with it the last sprays of golden light that radiate from the hall-way beyond.

As a pre-schooler of three or four years of age, this was the comforting exchange that would end my day.  On this note, I would be happy to snuggle into the added comfort and warmth of my soft toy as I drifted into slumber. It was as it should be…a father comforting his child as she relaxes into the knowing that all is safe and secure in her world, with him there to protect her. This was of course, how things were before I had learned to shut my door, turn the music up and suck in my breath.

For a very short period in those early years I looked to my father as a soft, rounded, reliable figure. I recall being perched on his shoulders at a circus, his thick hands gripping my ankles reassuringly as I strain my neck to peer above the crowd. I am Safe… in the knowing he will not let me fall. I feel the pride swell in my four-year old chest as I follow him faithfully up and down the white chalk lined boundary of a soccer field, whilst he yells directions to the boys chasing the round ball within. I am Secure… in the knowing he will not lose me in the crowd.  It was as it should be. This was of course, before I learned to hunch my shoulders and shrug out which ever response was expected as he carried out my mother’s business.

Numbness connects these memories of my father. A blank white wall confronts me. I stare and stare but can’t seem to find the detail. I cannot distinguish the surface from plaster, timber or brick…I have no idea if its’ finish is gloss or matt. Impressions of my father have simply become a white-wash of nothingness. Over the years, each experience of betrayal I encountered caused the illusion of my father as an ally to dissipate into a languorous puff of indifference; his role as my mother’s accomplice in the game of manipulation gradually exposed.

On so many many occasions when I needed a voice of strength and authority to stand up for what was right and fair and normal, his silence ricocheted from ear to ear, echoing in my head with voluminous discord. At other times his outbursts of rage literally shook the floor boards beneath me, and saw me scream “Stop it…Just Stop It !”, only to be ordered to my bedroom by my mother.  The fear and confusion incited by my view of the limbs of a father and his sons entangled in a violent scuffle on the rumpus room floor, soon transformed to disgust and eventually contempt. As the dynamics between my four brothers disnintegrated, cruelly orchestrated by my mother, I came to despise his placid allowance of her manipulating behaviour that had turned the males in my household into virtual putty. 

Interestingly, acceptance of my father’s role as silent conspirator settled easily within me as a young child. I did not struggle against it. Generally, I did not question it, though at times I did ponder how he could adjust to the world beyond our front door …the real world…as an employee and colleague in a high profile company.   That he did exit the house every morning to maintain a seemingly well functioning professional persona, made his betrayal of his children even more unforgivable.  Yet his incongruous existence did not consume me. I simply grew to see him as a pathetic figure who had succumbed to a life riddled with false premises espoused by an emotionally corrupt woman, that even an eight year old could detect.

When I was around the age of ten or eleven, I witnessed a scenario that cemented my understanding of him as a conscious conspirator in the madness that was our family life. I recall a commotion one evening that lead me to quietly inch open my bedroom door, just enough to provide a view to the top of the hallway. I saw my father standing with his hand on the door knob, a brown leather suitcase at his feet. “I’ve had enough. I’m leaving”, I heard him say. Good I thought Go Go…She deserves it. My mother was on the floor, hysterically grabbing at his legs. Maybe if he leaves, the bars of control that trap us in this existence will melt away freeing us from the poisonous happenings within. Yet I see him pick up the suitcase and retreat back into the front room. Weak I thought, shaking my head in disgust. Yes that’s him…Weak.