My Mother

I just had a thought. My mother, who is very in tune with the way that I feel and the ups and downs of my emotions must be having a panic attack. Not literally, but in the back of her mind, there is that worry. Is she going down that road again? How do I help her? What can I say to make it all better?

My writings of late have been about my depression but my poetry is a freedom of expression. For all the poems I have written every single one, my mom struggles to understand. She use to say to me, ‘It is good, but does it have to be so bleak?’ And I did not know how to answer. Bleak is what I do, it is what I relate to. And now this is seguing from a conversation about my mother to the evolution of my poetry.

I have always been dark. I like twists and turns, and devious minds. I like feeling scared (i.e. jumping out from behind the door and scaring the shit out of me) and my poetry has always reflected that. My poetry has been an expression for my feelings. Not always but for the most part, yes it has.

Until now. Now I am finding that I can twist and turn words and I can create imagery that is blindingly there, in front of your eyes. Which leads me back to my mother. I wrote a poem and posted it about abuse. My mom and my BFF freaked. They thought it was indicative of my emotions. At one time it might have been, but now, I have found the freedom to expand beyond that. To take my feelings and emotions and twist and spin them so that they tell a story.

So back to my mom…..she worries about me, she tries very hard to understand me, she supports me and is my cheerleader from hell and back……I am certain she would probably fight the devil himself for custody of me (and truth be told he would give me back ’cause who but my mom is gonna get me) and she has given me the freedom to be me….

Hey mom, I am saying this for the world to hear, I love you and appreciate all the things that you have done for me. And most of all…..thanks for believing in me.

Naked

I stand, naked before the mirror, looking at my flaws;

a thickening waist, breasts that are beginning to sag,

a small belly from carrying my son…

I am aging.

When I was 12, 18 seemed so far away

when I was 18, 25 was a century away

When I was 27,  I cried my first set of tears

because now I knew what it meant to be aging.

At 30 I learned that the turbulent emotions I have felt for years

the anger and rage that I spewed on my family

Was due to undiagnosed depression;

the fact I needed to sedate and obliviate

was something I figured was due.

At 35 I discovered I was pregnant and spent my time in fear

for previously I had lost my daughter,

and how could I go through that again?

My child was born a tribute to his father;

identical in looks I would say

But as he grew and aged the truth became apparent,

after his mother does he take.

Now I am 44 and before the mirror I do stand;

I see my flaws, my double chins, the crow’s feet around my eyes

but I have a better understanding, I am more free

from the child I was, the child I crave to be;

Peter Pan rides my dreams, for Neverland is true.

©Jay-lyn Doerksen

March 15/17