Doubt is the opposite of faith
and often has double the strength.
It wheedles, it whines, it stretches my nerve
from width to depth to length.
Doubt is the enemy of hope
and stamps on my self-belief.
It taxes my time, my gut, my soul.
It’s nothing but an insidious thief.
Doubt is the victor at night
as an unfulfilled day draws dark.
But it’s no match for a shiny new morning,
full of light and love and spark.
I’ve had to lie, for most of my life
to princesses, witches. Oh, what strife.
Who cares who’s the prettiest of all ‘dem t’ings?
Whoever asks the question is really disturb’ing.
So what do they see in that reflection of mine?
I’m guessing a false kind of self divine.
Cos your real self ain’t a patch on that fake.
What do you want today? Transparent? Opaque?
When you ask me a question, don’t expect the truth.
‘Cos if you look too hard, you’re just chasing youth.
Who would blame you
for tucking your head
into the luxurious leaves
of your flower bed.
Is it safe to look out
with that rain pelting down?
Spring’s playing hard to get:
you could risk getting drowned.
But your bud is cute,
your petals are pert.
Don’t waste the chance to
swish your fragrant skirt.
Before we know it
you’ll be facing the sun.
Your edges will wilt,
your time will be done.
As you swing your hand against my chin
my babyish bones rattle within;
your palm so swift, so hard, so grim,
against my freckly, guiltless skin.
I bow my neck, cover my head
with foetal fingers that seek to protect
my sacred centre, locked from view.
But a curled-up child is always your cue
to parade your power, your strength, your hue
that bitterly, darkly claims its due.
Inside my head is light and free –
that’s the place you can’t reach me.
So, as thunder rams upon my skull,
and in your righteous fury I sense no lull,
I retreat to a place that’s barriered and safe
against which all love will lean and chafe.
I first published this poem as part of my MA Creative Writing project: Inktuition – Healing Through the Written Word. It feels appropriate to re-publish it for NaPrWriMo’s Day 12 prompt on saying things I’d like to say, but will never be able to say, to my mother. She is terminally ill with Pick’s Disease, an aggressive and early form of dementia.
You were an abandoned child,
left to fend for yourself,
not knowing what you’d done wrong.
Cruelty hurts your emotional health.
You were scooped up and saved,
given a safe home and a place
until someone picked you for theirs.
Kindness softens your sense of disgrace.
Your round, pleading eyes
pull compassionate strings in my heart,
so up you eagerly jump on my lap.
Love feeds you a chunk of my tart.
Hate is too strong a word
for you. That would be absurd.
A person who claims uncle-hood,
yet is too absent to be any good,
couldn’t dredge any sense of feeling
or, while I’m at it, any point or meaning.
You pop up when there’s cash
or a chance to cut a dash.
And you act like your heart bleeds
when anyone has a need.
But your soul was sold some time ago
to the devil of distance, or vertigo.
You count your change, your deeds turn sour,
yet you turn up pure at the golden hour.
My un-love for you is cold and life-long.
Hate? That word for you is far too strong.
NaPoWriMo sets the challenge today
to focus on ‘noir’.
How can I not obey?
A glamorous fringe, sweeping one eye
is hard to resist.
Like a bullet bye-bye.
What’s not to love about murders untraced
that whisper round corners,
waists unlaced.
But my kind of noir travels way within,
to the shadow of self
that’s my evil-ish twin.
Because dark in a mirror without conscience or soul
will haunt my life’s work
like irremovable kohl.
It’s not very often I do my daughter proud
As I struggle to climb a colourful frame or slide.
While she clambers free and easy, giggling long and loud,
My bones feel far too worn, my hips that bit too wide.
But one muddy day through a field freshly ploughed
The only way home was over a fence that could subside.
She cheered me on as I inched slowly over the gate,
Saying: ‘You’re just as good as someone who is eight.’
Something about your mascara eyes
And your coral painted lips
that look confused, not scary really,
so are you sticking to the script?
But beyond the puffed up, stuffed old shirt
And the pulled-in little waist,
I wonder:
Are your twiggy fingers ready to fight
Or have you put on your bravest face?
There was a time when pink was the shade
For skirts and shoes, bags and braids.
From the palest of rose to a magenta hue
Her world was a sugarplum peek-a-boo.
But princesses, fairies, fluffs and frills
Are no longer the ways she gets her thrills.
I blinked. She grew. Did I miss a trick?
Oh, those pink days just went by too quick.
inktuition 