Quiet: a sonnet

We’re still working on poetry in my classroom. Today’s workshop? Sonnets. So I attempted one, and if you read it slant, it loosely qualifies for the form. Mind you, I don’t “do” iambic pentameter that Shaky loved to employ.

I’ve figured out that silence
Is more powerful than speech
Not voicing a single sentence
He feels the blame increase

I’d already share my issues
The numerous ones there were
Used up too many tissues
Focused on his interest in her

The situation is no longer mine
To deal with on my own
Already have I drawn the line
This will no longer interfere with home

It’s his loss, I tell you
My final goodbye remains true

The top: my closure

Chubby fingers gripped round conic toy
rubbing it between pressed palms, determined
Little one opens her hands, releasing
off it spins on wooden floor
***
Yesterday, on top of the world
Nothing could damper my spirit
Then you spoke those final words
And confirmed the unthinkable betrayal true
***
Twirling top bounces off the wall
Topples over on its side, stopped
She toddles to its resting place
Looking at finality before moving on
***
There’s nothing left to hope for
Your sentiment was clear to me
this closing understanding becomes my release
My spirit, though grieving, rises again.

Stranger than fiction

“I will eviscerate you in fiction. Every pimple, every character flaw. I was naked for a day; you will be naked for eternity. ” Chaucer, A Knight’s Tale

It’s funny how real life often seems like something the imagination conjured up – – like there is no possible way the events that unfold are actually occurring. And yet, I find myself living in the middle of a plot fit for LMN or some such telenovela channel.

Just this morning, while laying in bed in the darkness and the quiet of my home, I said goodbye to poison. Through the tears that wet my pillow, I typed out my pain and pressed the grey button to seal my sentiment. Eyes, puffed and red, betrayed my efforts of feigning normalcy. Normal, my life is certainly not.

Or, maybe, this is what normal actually looks like? Somehow I’m immersed in a convoluted fable that my children, I pray, will never have to learn the moral for first hand.

I did it though, and it is done. Released his hold on my pride and allowed a peace to overcome me. There will be no more criticism to choke the sun in my days – at least not from him.

And now, I’m thinking of how to translate this foreign feeling into words. It will come in time.

Criticism

He storms through the door and darts his eyes about with accusing glances. Stopping at my masterpiece, his lips curl into a sinister smile. “Do you like it?” I ask timidly. And Criticism, seizing the opportunity, begins to tear off pieces and scatter them on the floor. He ignores Wisdom’s guidance and plugs his ears to Tact as he stomps upon the shredded mess that was my creation.

written 12/1/09 (and, quite possibly, appearing on this blog before…)

Knowledge (a haiku poem)

Scandalous, you are
Actually believing
Your lies as the truth

Her: “She knows it’s me?”
A still present tense affair
Affirmed simply “Yes.”

The warning was clear
A threat, perhaps, thinly veiled
This will be ruin

Every parent knows
Example is best teacher
Yours serves deterrent

the flower

You reap what you sow,
Or so they say so often.
I find it odd you’d plant
seeds in so many places expecting
that none would grow, or bloom.
Grow, however, is what seedlings do.
Sprouting in springtime, these wild things.
Was the lie a weed, tell?
It still breaks surface green, strong.
And I thought I saw hints
of pretty petals showing their color.
Adorning this living thing and expanding.
Beautiful sight initially beheld – eye catching,
but then it broadens, covers ground.
Unchecked, it encroaches on other flora
and strangles each with its arrival.

Writing along with Six Word Fridays at “My Memory Art“.

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