The Voices

The noise in her head

is made of voices –

her family’s voices

lifelong and blaming,

the voice of the former husband 

whispering insults 

just before he hit,

the voices of other women

scornful, demanding to know 

why she didn’t just go …

The voices of landlords

asking more and more money

for hovels, refusing repairs;

the voices of addicts

her neighbours

yelling and screeching

all hours; and the voices

of not-friends-after-all

excusing themselves

from going out for a coffee.

Her voice, as she tries

to make sense of all this

talking to me, 

is surprisingly clear.

‘Why’ she asks,

‘can we not find compassion?’

She blames COVID isolation

from which we haven’t recovered,

and the young eyes always on phones, 

not looking outward to other people.

I see also an older pattern

still not gone from the world:

a woman alone, no man

beside her to demand 

the automatic respect

she deserves in her own right.

I can do nothing practical, only listen, 

tell her she’s making sense (she is) 

and hope my one small voice 

provides some momentary relief.

Sharing with Poets and Storytellers United for Friday Writings #248, where we are invited to write about a type of noise, literal or metaphorical. (It seems I might need to explain, for some readers, that the 'she' here is not me. I am the listener, observer and narrator.)

Accentuate the Positive

The peace talks with Iran have broken down again –

but the President is sounding confident and looking well.

Predictions promise the hottest summer on record yet –

but at least my little cat didn’t live to suffer through it.

The rising prices can’t be stopped or even slowed –

but I exercise less these days, so my appetite is smaller.

See, it doesn’t matter how bad things are – 

you can ‘always look on the bright side of life!’

Though the world is breaking down in front of our eyes – 

I’m already 86. With luck, I’ll be dead by then.

Written for Friday Writings #247 at Poets and Storytellers United, where we are invited to take a negative concept and turn it into something positive. This jaundiced little piece is not at all what Magaly had in mind! Normally I would  applaud, emulate and endorse her commitment to genuine reframing, but – apologies, dear readers – this time I was caught in a despairingly cynical mood. Later: Nevertheless, some readers seem to have missed the ironic mood – as so often happens when I attempt irony!

Suddenly

 

My irises announce new Spring:

sweet blooms, first in my tiny garden,

their vivid blue singing aloud

a glorious hymn to life.

Not mere fol-de-lol frippery

like sillier, frillier flowers,

they seem broad and strong –

though they are tender and too soon gone,

the brief delight glaring and fading

like sudden fireworks, or a trumpet note

bursting upon the air ... yet leaving

that bright memory fully imprinted.

Written  (on Spring Equinox) for Friday Writings #246: Light-hearted words for Spring, at Poets and Storytellers United. Word list (use one, some or all): fol-de-lol, frippery, tender, delight, singing, sweet, new. (Yes, you may correct the first to fol-de-rol if you prefer.)

Old Family Photos

 

In this picture I’m dancing

with my cousin Leo –

as kind as he was handsome.

I must have been 16. He,

older by seven years. 

Now I’m 86. He’s dead.

In this one, I’m a baby,

fat and round, like the beach ball 

posed beside me (a fashion

in baby snaps back then). Pretty

curls, pretty pursed lips, and 

a solemn, shrewd, appraising stare.

Here’s my young mother

in a long winter coat. The few 

trees are bare. Her dark, wavy hair, 

parted in the centre, is pinned 

back off her forehead. She is

holding me up to the light.

Here she is again, kneeling 

in an empty field beside one 

lump of rock. She’s draped it 

with McLean tartan. Red and green. 

Her father’s tartan. (I wonder

if I’m looking at Culloden.)

Of course, she was much

older then. That was the same trip 

when she and my stepfather posed, 

all dressed up – top hat, gloves – 

to attend, of all things, a garden party 

at Buckingham Palace. Such proud smiles!

There’s my little brother, with me 

and his best friend Roger, at The Gorge – 

showing off his balsa-wood boat, The Star,

which our dad made. We are standing

knee-deep in water. That same day 

The Star escaped, tumbling the rapids.

‘Stay there!’ said our dad, pointing

at the shore, as he set off to track it

all the way down to flat water. Only

the slender mast broke. But he found us 

crowded on top of a small, flat rock, 

oblivious of raging swirls. (No photo.)

We come to me in my twenties:

bridesmaid to a childhood friend,

then to my nearest cousin; my graduation;

then all those balls I attended with Don

whom I married first time around.

Even my own wedding.

The histories continued, but

the album comes to an end. This was 

the one I inherited after my mother died, 

the one she filled – mostly with pictures

of me. She wasn’t a cuddly mother, but,

after all, she must have liked me.

Written for Friday Writings #245: Family at Poets and Storytellers United.

Growing Apart

Why is it

one can absorb the changes;

one cannot? 

One and one make two –

only sometimes. 

At others, one and one

make one and 

one other.

Ideally

when love is full,

one and one make one –

becoming one, being

united 

whole.

(Which is perhaps illusion

or, only sometimes. But still.)

A long friendship

is a kind of marriage –

without the complications

of sex. Without

the financial

entanglement.

Easier in some ways,

more comfortable.

But lives go on, and happen

at times on different tracks.

They can lead

further and further away.

Not a loop rejoining, but

other directions, other

scenery / people /

contrivances for living.

The funny thing is,

you don’t notice. There is

still communication. 

(Communication is stilled

but you don’t notice.)

Until they say something

and you respond 

and they take offence.

And when you look at it

you can quite see why they do,

how it, carelessly, sounded –

only, once, the way it was meant

would have been clear, accepted,

understood, needing no 

explanation. No apology. Not 

between these two.

But it has come to this.

We no longer run

so deep – no longer joined. 

Instances proliferate.

Explanations, apologies:

wasteful. I detach 

quietly. Respond politely.

From the outside.

Written for Poets and Storytellers United at Friday Writings #243, where we are invited to write something which includes numbers.