Author: poetryfest

Honore de Balzac said, “A mother who is really a mother, is never free.”
And that lack of freedom is one of the best gifts in the world.

11/20/2021

I met a little boy today
He is about five years old.
I met him in the choir loft
At Fairmount Congregational Church
In Wichita, Kansas.
He had loving parents
Who did all they knew how to do for him.

But there was Sunday when he was sitting
In church with his father
And felt the need to sit on his mother’s lap
And be held—right then!
So he went to the front of the church
Climbed up into the choir loft
And tried to sit on his mother’s lap.

His mother was in the choir
And was understandably embarrassed.
Why are you such an inconvenience?
That’s what he was asked.
You should have known better!
That’s what he was told.
As he was scolded and sent back
To his seat with his father.

That Sunday was 65 years ago,
And the little boy had never left the choir loft
When I met him today.
He was still about 5 years old
And still looking for his mother’s love
And feeling like a great inconvenience
Right now!

From that day to this
He has always feared asking for attention
When seeking love, he expects rejection.
So he usually doesn’t even ask.
And when he asks, he is usually rejected
Because he does it the wrong way.

But what can you expect?
He is only five!
His mother is long gone
And he is now so used to rejection
He accepts it without complaining

As just the way things are supposed to be
Though it still hurts just as much as the first time!

I met that little boy today
He is sitting on my lap right now
And he has a new friend.

Ian Bruce Johnson, November 24, 2024

My world looks at me and never does see.
Some see my treasure and round it hover,
Others see but inconvenience in me.
Most see nobody, life that was never.
I was born only thus to disappear.
Yet my ignorant, secret faults cause pain
When those who once saw me, now, as I fear
See nothing in me, and pleas for mercy vain.
But you, Lord, have forgiven all my stain
When I seek you for grace and peace you hear
You see and remain my greatest lover
Though to the world invisible like me.
But my cries you hear and my relief ordain
A way of safety through my greatest fear
And real to you I will always remain
And you will keep all those we hold dear!
You have made us your treasure forever
Together you have made us ever free
In each other now to you uncover.
I look for your face and all the world I see!

– In memory of Kylee Googe 2004-2024

It’s been a year since you passed away;
The facebook notification reminds me.
I drink vodka neat out of dirty crystal
glass that my mother got 20 years ago.

The fan swirls into my mind and then I see
your mother posting her usual videos, telling
everyone how she misses you and that she
loves her facebook family. I can barely watch.

I gulp the rest of the vodka. I wrap myself
In my pink and teal cover and hide. I throw
My phone across the room and start to sob.
I silent my sobs so my parents dont hear.

“Youre not dead” I repeat to myself. Your
bubblegum pink dress and my cyan dress
Is stained within my memories. I still have
our graduation picture on my wall. I miss us.

I’m sorry I didnt go to the funeral. I watched
from afar; my sadness and anger consumed
me. They layed you to rest in Georgia, I want
to see you now. I think I’m ready to talk to you.

I want to tell you that I loved our friendship. I miss
your laugh, your eyes and your weird sense of humor.
I get my phone and like your moms facebook post.
“Happy birthday Kylee, you would have been 21 today”.

My first memories are of terror, fight or flight
No escape from the pictures in my mind
You burned those flames into that brain
Told me such was my eternal fate
If I was a naughty girl or I didn’t believe
Daddy I was scared to fall asleep

Jesus, he looked just like you
Brown beard, eyes so blue
Loved me so much he died you said
But the face of God was always dark instead
The book you pressed in my little hands
Was full of the evil of Jesus’ dad

In my dreams I drowned in the flood pounding on the ark
My Daddy sold me for an ox and cart
Then there was the time he handed me over to be raped
Put my brother on the altar and burned me at the stake

Because my God was a character of old
A product of a place where daughters were sold
My Jesus was one of the trending saviors
These figures flawed and typical I’d discover later
But as a child the fear of God was real
Love for him an emotion I fought to feel

I didn’t want to worship that monster Mama
But I tried to love him so hard because you said I just gotta
Said someday I would understand his tough love
Said dynamics are different after the sacrifice of his son
But Mama I hold a grudge

What kind of a god treats his children so badly
You’d never hurt me like that right Daddy?
But they saw sin in my soul somehow

Raised the rod of correction to drive it out
Handed me the Hell handed to them
Handed me the hammer that drove the nails in
And then I committed my gravest sin

I’m not sorry I couldn’t keep the faith of my father
But Daddy I’m no prodigal daughter
I wish I could tell you I ain’t ever coming back
The doctrine you drilled in was so far from fact
The lies of that religion caused me great pain
It made a mess of a malleable little brain

Mama I know it was all in the good faith
You carried unquestionably to your grave
I know I said I’d see you up there but I lied
I don’t want to skip down streets of gold at your side
Mama I watched you suffer all your life
An insult to be granted mercy in the afterlife
You deserve better than gold for your grace
And I know you’re there if there’s really a good place

I imagine you there, in autumn leaves and thin air
Watching me, loving me, no longer scared
Of the god you wanted us to love so much
Oh Mama how silly that was

I guess we do the best with what we know
And Daddy I just want to learn and grow
I wish I could tell you there’s peace outside of faith
And it’s not anger that pushed God from my plate
Though I’ll always harbor a certain hate
For that fictional character that once sealed my fate

I know you wish I could sit beside you at church
You just don’t understand why I’m so hurt
You’ve internalized that guilt and shame
Don’t get why I’m not OK with doing the same

But Daddy I didn’t crucify Christ
Or belong to some ancient Israelite tribe
You might believe in the grafted to the vine thing
But really you’re the son of Vikings
Your wish for me is faith father
I lie lightly like a dutiful daughter

We as people in this life
are affected by our fear of death.

Not death itself,
but our thoughts,
our assumptions,
our feelings,
the perception of ourselves.

We fear life itself—
that is the cause of our death.
Your death.
Soon to be mine.

However,
the more specific causes of death—
if I were to list them—
are living,
fearing,
breathing,
all at the same time.

Not the cliché—
catching illness,
dying of old age,
murder,
or accidental, grotesque ways.

Simply being actively alive,
allowing yourself to still experience
your way of living—
that is the cause of your death.

How you choose to live your life
is what kills you.

Ironic.

Inescapable.

Your fear of living this life
in the most profound, meaningful way
is the reason you’ll die.

Your fear of being human—
making mistakes,
crying, appearing weak,
looking stupid for chasing hopeless dreams,
living in every moment.

Your cause of death is you—
your own hands,
your own mind,
your wants, needs, and thoughts.

Your heart,
your brain,
your soul—
what kills you.

Not the unexpected.
Not the uncontrollable.
But you.

You are the cause of your death.

Let that be physical,
spiritual,
emotional,
or mental.

You kill yourself.
We all are the cause of our deaths—
even others’ deaths.

It’s just a question of how you’d like
to kill yourself during this life.

And if you’re willing
to sacrifice happiness doing it—
or experience failure in doing so.

So,
How will you kill yourself?
What will be your cause of death?

Silver sparks and smoke curls
in my spirit colours of fire,
ribbons dancing on the wind
as I pull it down.

I sink into this concrete that knows me,
remembers my name
calls me home
lays me down
into long-sought forgetting.

My blood sings soft hymns
of a chorus burning bright,
then letting me go.
I am undone
and revel in it.

A breath called relief
forms deep in my once-raw throat.
Sunlight drips honeyed through leaves
onto grass I’ve made my bed.
I am free as I flicker in and out.

Aluminum cradles my craving.
Foil, a comfort food now.
Sighs lift my lungs as my head sags
to my aching chest.
Giving in never felt so good.

There are ghosts here
but I don’t mind.
They stand guard and hold me.
Safe in their arms made of vapour,
I am home.

The hush grows, my eyelids heavy
forming pillows on salted cheeks.
Burn lines are roads to better days
as I hover over this body
I yearn to leave.

My light was out when the message bore
the state of the child’s condition
and brought me kneeling to the floor
and reading what the father knew—
the object as inviolable, though reason claimed we too
would not cease in giving way
when met by forces, I recalled
my own children and imagined they…
Oh, God, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

By light, I sought to reconcile
Esse and affliction
To no unknowing dying child
to each his own condition (human)
through surreptitious bloody trial, the alter on which He too
long ceased in giving way
when met by suffering, hear Him call, Talitha cumi
on The Day.
Oh, God, You can.

I’ve met my share of opponents:

Life of mine, just ripening.
“stay away from sky, man. She’s insane.”
brain of mine consists of insane, I like sky.
until,
I open the cabinet late at night
and with all her might!
a BOOT to the face
goodbye sight.
goodnight.

Life of mine, just ripe.
“brandy doesn’t like you, man. She just thinks you are alright.”
but i saw a different side of her-
some swigs and she’ll fiddle strangers wigs
believe it or not, she wasn’t afraid of giving birds to innocent guinea pigs.
brandy was surely a treat to the boring souls
and could not be beat.

Life of mine, soaring and about to dive.
I went off and met artois.
“artois is so beautiful, mais monsieur! Goodness sake she’s a chain smoker.”
I loved that and i joined
for entertainment she hid cigarettes
En bouche!
the love of a rebellion belgian
grew grew grew
love was nothing new
with regret, I’ve returned.

My life ahead, when mimi comes.
Victory!
she’ll let me know
I have not sold my soul.

A gentle knock, father’s hum, this was the sign, it was time. The house held its
breath as I made my way out of the boy’s arms and childhood bed, marble stairs
chilling my soles, stairs that bruised shins and braved nightmares, now led to
death. Steps in between worlds. Trying to make sense at
eleven days from nineteen. Not a child, not an adult,
forever the daughter who would say, “I was 18 when my mother died.”
Grasping, yearning for structure, for a step-by-step guide for life.
How to deal with a mother withering away when your life
is meant to start, wanting predictability, sense, ABC, 123, at this premature
juncture not meant for a teenager to wash her mother’s pale body,
kissing her curled-up hands. Hoping for two plus two is four, not dry
lips cracking, pee-pads filling, straws exhausting. Life, give me a map not
morphine dripping into her veins. Is there a recipe for death as I
numbed and soothed the pain that will take years to fade. Calendula cream
on sore elbows that held my childhood. Silence. Breath rasping like torn
paper. Gone. Too late. There, a last gasp, raw, defiant, and then forever
quiet. Life over. Mother. Silence surely eternal. But no. Life kept on lifing,
radios played, bread was baked, cars drove to work, a new life ahead of
step-moms and years of grasping for handed-down wisdom only a mother can
teach. Hours at the edge of the bed speaking to her cooling body. Reciting the
unwritten agreement: “I shall eat, I shall survive, honor life, despite the ache, the
void where a mother should be, through years: 20, 25, 32, 41, 52 hours of labor,
witnessing initiations without you. Life shall continue to birth itself, rainbow
xylophone sounds shall ring as your granddaughter finds her rhythm,
You, Mom, her Oma, alive in every story I shall pass on.” I sat starting at
zero by her silent lungs and I shall forever live wildly and loudly in her name:
Anita.