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Muddy Puddles
I could stay here at the beach all day
throwing rocks into Lake Erie,
unsuccessfully trying
to skip stones.
Once or twice I manage,
but most land with that deep "thunk" sound.
I'll admit,
it's oddly satisfying,
this type of failure.
"Don't you know why we moved from Florida?"
My sister asks me.
Of course I don't,
I was only one at the time,
over 40 years ago.
It wasn't the first time,
nor was it the second time
when at seven years old
she escaped through a bathroom window
naked and bleeding
from the man,
one of mom's many "friends"
who broke her arm,
and did far worse things to her.
"Uncle Bruce and grandma paid for the plane tickets,
and we left as soon as I had testified."
"I never let the cops know that mom knew all along.
She would have sold either of us if she could have gotten a dime."
For four decades I followed so many dead - end leads trying to find my father.
In the age of the internet, you would think I'd have gotten somewhere.
Do you know what that moment is like,
when you finally learn what's been buried in you all along;
that your parents are each a POS?
When I was a little boy I always wondered
why my sister, when beating me,
would scream for me not to cry,
that the pain should always
"stay in the family."
She was indoctrinated.
Better muddy puddles
than to be an embarrassment.
Our mom never stopped blaming her
for breaking her and that man up.
A few years later she would bruise herself
then tell social services that my sister did it,
that my sister beat her.
My mom bragged to me about that
over ice cream
when I was eight.
A few years later she did the same to me.
Kindly pastors,
who live in protective bubbles,
and are shielded from the realities of life
remind me to honor my father and mother.
And my sister?
She lives this, somehow,
as I see her take food and essentials
to a woman of nearly 80
with dementia.
Who never has,
and never will ask her
for forgiveness.
It took me a very long time to learn
that my sister is a fucking saint.
Style / type:
Free verse
Review Request (Intensity):
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction):
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Editing stage:
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Comments
weirdelf
Sun, 2017-04-23 04:03
Brave and powerful, my friend.
And clearly needed to be said.
I would be remiss not to mention that it has no prosodic values. Not even freeform really. But a powerful write.
I've got to say also that the ending appalled me. Even Jesus only offers forgiveness if one repents.
Maybe the use of the word 'fucking' is meant to make it ironic or sarcastic? In which case I could cop it.
cheers,
Jess
A new workshop on the most important element of poetry-
'Rhythm and Meter in Poetry'
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Conect11
Sun, 2017-04-23 08:30
definitely irony in there
my sister is definitely not naive, but rather is trying to somehow, someway rise above her past. So she takes our mother food, adult diapers, etc. The irony is that all my life I thought she was "the big bad meanie." Turns out she has far more compassion and forgiveness in her heart than I could ever have imagined.
author commentjane210660
Sun, 2017-04-23 08:44
Brave indeed
I followed the story through, with growing horror.
I felt comfy with the images of pebble skimming, but as we went on, your story unfolded.
I (love)? some of the imagery Mom bragging to an eight year old whilst eating his ice cream. Such a contrast of innocence (or what should be) and ..... well, I could almost say evil.
The final two lines
'It took me a very long time to learn
that my sister is a fucking saint.'
stopped me short, not sure if it was the harsh vocab, or what you were trying to convey by it. I didn't think you were being sarcastic, just trying to convey how much of a saint she is - a sort of ironic observation. I didn't have a problem with it .
Either way incredibly powerful, very emotive and I hope the writing of it was cathartic.
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Conect11
Sun, 2017-04-23 09:18
ironic observation
that might be the phrase I'm looking for. Perhaps the irony is in that a saint isn't the "perfect" people we imagine, but in the broken and angry. My sister has every right to be angry. And she is a saint, still.
author commentGeezer
Sun, 2017-04-23 13:43
You are right...
your sister is still a saint. Just as having courage, is doing what one must in the face of fear, being a saint, is having the compassion to do what one should when they have every reason not to. Glad that you wrote about this. It gives me the strength and hope to keep going when I know I want to give up. [Read my poem of that title, "I Give Up"] ~ Gee.
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Esker
Sun, 2017-04-23 22:38
equilibrium
when they become just the basic
my mother never did
your poem walks it through from the
pebble moments to the living horror
and somewhere the joy and respite
and bleak dull shine between battles
all my friends who took me on came
from this...or much worse...with hearts
intact...i was afraid.
but not that afraid
my mother had cancer
and according to my ex..died on the table
or bed rattling to the end
Think Pris..Blade Runner
I stayed far far away
the women face the adversity
and forgive
i was good for taking on that
that they couldnt
and i AM good at this
one moment of one hour
day..then...
off on the next thing
but there must be a reason
for my craziness
i didnt just make it up
no more then their stories
when or if they speak of it
to be able to write this
and see your sister
with the respect
is respected
from me
I like the real writes
about wrongs
that have evolved
right
and on that..im stopping
right here
thank U......
w
Conect11
Wed, 2017-12-13 20:06
Thank you Steve
There are a lot of tributes on the main page for you, and deservedly so. I wanted mine to be here, privately. You always answered my poems with poems, because that's exactly who you were. It took me a while to understand it, but damn, you were a hell of a writer, and a hell of a man. Thank you Esker. May the next life treat you well,
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