As you will see, my relationship with mother was not smooth sailing.  Now that she is gone, I see things with contemplation that I never saw before....BUT we cannot wipe memories away, they are not tears.



Like many other mornings with my mother
I awoke with a nervous stomach
fearful for what this day would bring.
Rarely was the verbal assault, on my ears,
continued past the hour of midnight.
Instead she bore the offensive lance
of being completely incommunicative -
her silence borne like a perpetual greivance
for the childhood wounds I had inflicted.

On this particular morning I recall,
I contemplated ending my life.
(Obviously I never did the dreadful deed
but at each jousting, such as this, yesterday,
the concept of suicide strengthened
became more contemplative.)

At the time I had not a single clue
of what exactly was going on in her head;
how did she feel, how much anger and hate
did she really have, there inside of her?
What I feared as I finally arose from bed
was how she had painted yesterday's event
to my father - long since gone to work.

The days that have accumulated since then
have robbed me of the precise memory
of what it was that created the situation.
Very rarely, in truth, did I have guilt
for my part in these recurring spats.
This one though, and the sickness I felt
throughout the ensuing day, was m-e-m-o-r-a-b-l-e.

Memorable too, in the evening that followed,
was the slap across my face my Father bestowed.
I can still feel how it momentarily
caused my world to shudder and blank

deep, deep, inside my head.
That a child could cause such disturbance
in the ether of our family habitation
is quite an anathema in my memorabilia:
I am sickened in my belly just sitting here
expelling some of the sense of injustice
I felt, through my loved medium of words.

Ah, but time allows the memory's skin
to shed the scabs and scars of wounds!
But though it's skin is soft and smooth
my memory maintains, and the events of that day
cannot be unseen, unfelt, or forgotten.
Such is the uneven path of life we live
that the stones beneath our soles that bite
are the the ones remembered most. The skill,
I have not yet fully learned, is how to absolutely
fill those pains and craters

with everlasting love.




© Griffonner 2022



Poetry by Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 78 times
Written on 2022-08-05 at 15:43

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Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Yes, for some reason (or for a certain kind of person), the "stones" are what are remembered. If you can move past that, please teach me your technique.

D G Moody The PoetBay support member heart!
Childhood suffering - and how a child can suffer! That suffering can be the manure, out of which the red rose of poetry grows.

one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
I cannot think what to say other than this is compelling. But, there's vastly more to say, if I had the words. The mother-son relationship is primal.

God, your last stanza just killed me. My relationship with my mother is kinda like this. I saw my own reflection in this poem. Good one.