Closest to the Edge

So, take the one closest to the edge

The one voted most likely to slice open

Her wrists, hang herself by the neck

Put a bullet in her brain; take that one

And stone by guilty stone, begin

Building a monument of some sort

Don’t worry about things from the past

Indicators that the situation may be

Quickly going south or that this might

Not be the season to flirt with this

Possibility; don’t pause to consider

Where this might all end, where it

Has ended other times when the start

Has been so similar to this start

You are not even thinking along

Those lines at all, are you, there are

No thoughts like those anywhere to be

Found in your mind, only her mind

Is a littered minefield of possible

Explosions that might take out her life

At least parts of her sane life and yet

No matter how many times you may

Have been exposed to this particular

Scenario, you do not possess even a

Tracing of it remaining in your

Consciousness; on some level,

Probably on most levels, she senses

This and knows she is doomed

S.E.Ingraham©

December 17, 2009

Written amidst arguments about Christmas – mostly between my daughters and I, about where one daughter - the one with children - and her family - are going to be spending the holiday (out-of-town) and an incredible bitterness from the other child surrounding this decision* ... the argument degenerated into all sorts of things – detailed in my journal – and non-speaking – one is still not speaking to me – it’s been almost 2 weeks now.  Anyhow – things were starting to get sorted out last night, I thought, the two girls talked but then I tried to explain some stuff to you and then we fought and now I guess we’re not talking. That’s where this poem grew from.* (There were mitigating circumstances behind our youngest's unhappiness, unbeknownst to the rest of us until long after the fact.)

All of My Ephemerals

Build the fire high

Let no darkness encroach

Here where every

Nook and corner

Harbours ghosts

And much as I might

Wish to speak

With most on an individual

Basis; I fear them as a group

Foolishness I know

Both to consider they

Exist at all

And to fear them if they do

But sadly, such is so

Still I waited all the night

For you last darkness

Drinking European

Hot chocolates

Sure such indulgence

Would keep me wide awake

And was rewarded

With the desired

Sleeplessness but no

Visitations

Then just as I sensed dawn

Creeping into the room

And somnolence into me

I felt your whimsy

Entering the space as well

But could not fight

Morpheus another moment

So missed you once again

And tonight there is such

A feeling of dread

A pervasiveness

That keeps me thinking

There are more wraiths

Present than I might like

Lurking, restless to be gone

Or to be mischievous

Whichever the case

I am not comfortable with it.

S.E.Ingraham©

His Eyes Were Serenely Blue

Hospital walls glow sickly mint-green

Late afternoon sunshine slants sneaky shadows

Across dirty tile floors; floors I’d expect to find clean

Spotlessly sterile in fact in this environment

This long, broad hallway is filled with light

And hilliness, slopes, inclines

My father, dressed in brown, a sienna brown suit

I’ve never seen before, has just finished hugging me;

I am reeling, faint with it ...

He rarely hugged anyone—not even me, his favourite—

As I stand in the basin of the slopes, I watch Dad pivot,

Then walk hurriedly up the incline going away from me

When he reaches the top, he turns

His eyes are clear, serenely blue

There is no pain there, it’s plain

He smiles broadly, waves at me

I muster up my own smile and wave back

Grinning, he turns away sharply,

Walks out of my view

There is something off about this

But I can’t quite put my finger on it

The niggling remains after I awaken

And all the next day as well

It’s like a name you’re trying to remember,

Or a word you can’t think of

It’ll be “right on the tip of your tongue”

And then - boom - gone, seemingly irretrievable.

It wasn’t until I saw a child struggling

with his crutches later that day, that it finally  hit me

All my life, my Dad, so uncomplaining, it was easy to forget -

Had a pronounced limp;

He’d been severely crippled as a child

And in later years, he was slowly resigning himself

To having to use canes and other “assists”,

as he put it.

As fate would have it, lung cancer

put paid to any of those notions

Dad had more to worry about than

walking sticks, when he got sick

And he was in so much pain

in such a short period of time

He didn’t do much moving at all

in the few months left, after his diagnosis

The issue of pain management

was the only thing that mattered at the end

And his trouble getting around became part

of his history, by the time he died.

But in my dream, Dad was vital again,

and he was walking tall, striding really

and with no sign of a limp, no hesitation

to his step even

I rewound the dream-reel in my mind,

picturing him pivoting and strolling

briskly up the incline of the hospital hallway

Then turning abruptly at the top,

smiling widely — he was inordinately proud

of keeping all his own teeth—

I thought that’s what the smile was about...

Ah, but, his eyes were so serenely blue

As he waved good-bye to me

—of course, I should have seen it—

Not only was he pain-free,

he could walk normally, briskly

Probably run if he chose to;

I like to think he was off to some rink

to try out ice-skating.

He’d always wanted to.

S.E.Ingraham©

 This poem is based on an actual dream that I had about a year after my Dad died, and most of the details are true. His hip was broken when he was six years old by kids giving him the “royal bumps” at his birthday party. The break wasn’t discovered for almost a week (I cannot imagine the pain!)when my Grandmother was helping him bathe,  and consequently, he spent the next four years in a body cast and in the hospital. He was told he would never walk again, never even tie his shoes, in fact, he would never likely do much of anything. He became a determined, patient little man, probably the most patient person I ever knew. As far as I know, the only thing he couldn’t do was ice-skate - and still, he taught both my brother and I how to do that as well.  Yes, he’s one of my personal heroes, and I still miss him greatly, almost seventeen years after his death.

*photo - my Dad's namesake and great-grandson, also with serenely blue eyes, who he unfortunately never got to be meet 

IN THE HOUSE OF MOON MADNESS

Some years ago, when almost all of my work was informed by my experiences as a mental health consumer, instead of just most of it ... I learned of Socrates' lofty philosophy regarding the creativity he felt grows from mania through "the deity" - a position I decided I liked very much. It was from that, the idea for this poem was born.

IN THE HOUSE OF MOON MADNESS

"The greatest of our blessings comes to us from mania ... madness coming from the deity

is superior to the sanity of human origin."     Socrates

In the time before uncivilized life

became the norm and the muses

Ruled not only the mind

but the heart and soul

And great thinkers worshipped

in the House of Moon Madness

My sovereign self was sure

and confident and as poetess

I walked in hues of purple

royalty with all attendant

to my moods and whims

For great knowledge was born

only of chaotic thought

and troubled introspection

Truth was a revelation

of the divine

to the manic alone

To be received

with gratitude

I held to my original titles:

Those of maternal power

moon-spirit and Goddess

In the time before life

became uncivilized

and great thinkers

still worshipped

in the House of Moon Madness

S.E.Ingraham©

Send in the Clouds

In the window by the mailbox

three wolves howl despair

where those babies lived

D'you remember, d'you?

No? maybe it wasn't there ...

But late afternoons when

two moons frequent the low sky

I find myself slowing as I walk by

there or over to the store

to pick up day old bread

Cause that's when it goes on sale

and so do the cakes - the big ones

For just five bucks - who can resist

a whole cake for just five bucks?

Even when things are bad

a five dollar cake makes things better

Doncha think? That's what the old man

used to tell us after he beat the crap

out of mamma and then each one of us

too -

That was before the wolves—

before the babies also

come to that—

But those memories

run together like eggs over easy

with the yolks not settled right...

S.E.Ingraham©

Prompt  inspiration:dVerse Poets-Poetics-Undercurrents w/Manicdaily