the anxiety of an adult orphan

There’s no one now older than me.

That makes me top of the family tree

There’s no one below to catch my fall.

I’m alone with old photo albums to trawl.

Thought I’d be fine after decades of their stress,

but from their loss there’s now an emptiness

I never expected to feel. After years of abuse

I honestly thought I had nothing to lose.

I hated for so long, resenting them fully

never feeling free to be what I could be.

And yet, without them here, my cellular sense

is vague and unsupported. Money matters clench

my tummy tight, as fear snakes up my throat,

my heart feels hard against parented people who gloat

at their mother’s day, father’s day cards and meals.

Quietly I know that one day they too will have to feel

what it’s like to lose and never get back that chance

to appreciate, to forgive, to enjoy the dance.

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Goodbye and still here

Dementia took my mother:

it was goodbye but still here.

A decade of sobbing

could never bring her mind back.

Ten long years it took her

to let go of reasons to live.

Cancer took my father:

it was goodbye and nothing left.

Ten short months of wailing

couldn’t rid him of his assailant.

It ate him up, cell by strand,

and we watched him disappear.

Yet though I’ve said goodbye

Inside, they’re still here.

a poem for determination

My car is pathetic, purple and slow

yet my accelerating thrust

can be devastatingly annoying

to the fast cars I leave for dust.

My athletic girl is diddy and slight:

her running gear shows her tiny waist.

Yet, with her spikes, her ferocious grit

leaves the rest to give her chase.

My spirit was crushed and left for nought

after I dealt with one death too many.

Yet I still live my heart and express my soul,

because the blessings I count are plenty.

a poem for my pointes

inktuition pointes

You live in a box of 70s plastic blue,

a doting reminder of

what I quickly outgrew.

Opened, it exudes a scent of resin

that transports me back

to being eleven.

One touch of your fragrant satin

and I’m back on stage in

a pirouetting pattern.

Your robust pointes are carefully sewn,

your ribbons a symbol of our tie.

To you my love I’ve always shown.

From that first day you were moulded to me.

You are singularly mine, today,

as I was back then: size three.

The day we met, I became whole.

I wept when ballet lessons stopped.

Only the smell of you, now, helps console.

This is for Day 7 of NaPoWriMo