Friday, April 5, 2019

4 poems inspired by the prompt "Stolen" Day 5. PAD (Poetic Asides)

Four and a half months 

On an April afternoon filled with sunlight
I painted my kitchen with bright yellow enamel
thought I felt The Universe smiling upon me –
Until she crept into the day, stealing buried treasure
Stolen: at four and a half months into an unaware 
childbearing - My tiny daughter, snatched, though 
I never knew for certain she was a girl, I felt her –
Felt her trapped in a Fallopian Faustian horror – 
could see her, caught, captured and squeezed, 
beating her miniature fists and feet on closing walls – 
A well intentioned and sweetly Catholic friend-of-the-
family surgeon – assured me when I awoke with –
one tube and no child to be – assured me smiling 
gently that the child had been perfect – compounding 
the theft – demolishing any this-is-for-the-best peace 
of mind – successfully twinning grief and guilt 
grief and guilt – at my inability to keep her safe. 
I stayed on the maternity floor listening to the 
unstolen infants –my daughter’s future colleagues. 

That Autumn – the Universe called again – yet again just
at four and one half months – of a newly anointed child-
to-be - One I felt fluttering breasts strokes and somersaults
within my womb – In a gush of blood more blindingly bright
than any seen before or since …the theft began - again – 
A short time later – gowned and bedded – a student nurse 
at my side – I felt the slip slide of my child whoosh from me 
as its soul danced somewhere 
beyond my puny understanding. 

I believe the Universe is kind and often smiles upon me as on
all others and yet, and yet. 
I know Her other face and name from long, long ago –

Freely given 

I never had a kiss stolen
or a watch or wallet - 
nothing of that sort
 all that flew away 
from me - 
was given - 
either directly 
before or after
the fact - but..
time ... time..
lately there has
been Time which
I have allowed to
slip -  stolen only
by my magnificent
arrogant negligence
of its importance and
so I return - calming 
this pounding heart
for moments, months,
years that have no re-
clamation and avow to
be more mind-full
now and ever 
as the


his first laugh and the gales that followed
the way he pulled himself up and stood on
two feet, ten toes unrecognizable to me, 
the flash of new teeth pushing through 
the color his eyes became after newborn days
his third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth,
ninth, tenth, eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth, 
fourteenth, fifteenth, sixteenth, seventeenth,
eighteenth, nineteenth, twentieth, twenty-first, 
twenty-second, months. 
the delight of recognition in his eyes 
when he sees me
and reaches up
for a hug
this first-born
grandson -
six minutes
in geography
and an infinite
abyss of un-
I'd say.

Grown and Flown Away – Matricide in modernity 
(a clumsy stab at a vilanelle) 

My son has grown and flown away
His ringtone silent, long now still
There is he says nothing more to say

He lives behind an enmity of gray
Beyond all pleadings, talk and why and will
My son has grown and flown away 

Cast me as though dead each day
I cannot revoke love nor maternity
There is nothing more to say 

Why is it that the words still play
In ever thronging bonging possibility 
My son has grown and flown away 

Posits and poetry flutter and lay 
He cannot read what he will not see
There is I suppose nothing more to say 

What would the Oracle say of this modern matricidal display
Irrevocable, inviolable love blood borne by him - incredibly
My son. My son has grown and somehow flown away 
It simply cannot be that there is nothing more to say 

1 comment:

  1. I have been following the NaPoWriMo prompts this year instead on the Writer’s Digest PAD, but I stopped there tonight and your first poem above led me here. So beautifully penned and touching! Your last poem here reminded me of what I wrote today about my flown away son: