Citrine Dreamer

Originally Written 09/05/2020, Edited 12/05/2021

Bestowed gift of manifestation
As laid by this babe's head,
Bring abundance to this child
With bounds yet to be unknown.
Create from his flesh a conduit
Flowing bountiful in curiosity
And free in unabashed glee.
Fortify his bones against misery
And afford him only adoration.
Grant him true expression of
Boundless and pure creativity
Cascading from his fingertips
Or coursing from his pouting lips.

Hold his tongue from envious spite.
Transform those jealous intentions
Into tangible and fortuitous actions.
Harbour angers, fears and explosions
To free his spirit for fresh pursuits.
Transmute his negative shadows
Into innovative and fertile passions
That may regenerate his being
And unshackle his ambitions.
Produce from this humble bairn
An infant of widened eyes and heart;
An enduring and steadfast being.
Make him true, fair citrine dreamer.

Writing in Café Covid-19

Original 10/05/2020, Edited 12/05/2021

There’s no dull background noise;
Everything sits in the small foreground.
The music; curated for a young child,
Is as conducive to creative writing as
Feeding a lazy dog all of my pens
And burning each of my notebooks.
This room knows my name,
Yet insists on calling me mother
At every conceivable moment;
At each attempt to concentrate
On putting pen to digital paper.

Although, I’m not being charged extra
For dairy-free milk and chocolate syrup.

Mrs. Delora

Come take a seat with Mrs Delora.
Find the answers to your questions,
Discover your truths,
Explore your future,
And marvel at her talents.
But, beware,
You may find more than you seek,
You may learn more than you need,
And you may leave... Liberated!

I took the man up on his offer,
And sat on a stool inside the tent.
Across the large wooden table
Sat a Fortune teller
Drowning in hemp cloth
And gold charms.

Her face was haggard,
As if she had seen a thousand lifetimes.
Her breath, strained and heavy,
And the smell of stale smoke,
Mixed with burnt herbs choked my lungs.

She placed her hand out on the table,
And coughed, wordlessly
Demanding my hand in hers.
In my open palm she placed a red stone,
And closed my fingers tight.

Are you a whore child?
I gasped, offended,
A whore! How dare she!
I guess you’re just promiscuous,
Don’t be offended,
I’m just teasing, child.

She started laughing,
Throaty and coarse she cackled.
But her humour was fugacious.

You’ll be barren of life,
You’ll just be a stand in,
A temporary.

Her words spun around my head,
As they tightened the garotte
Around my throat,
Pulling burning breaths
And twisting them under my tongue.

Would you like some tea?
It helps with the truth,
Makes it palatable…

I sip the mossy coloured liquid,
It burns my mouth,
But I can breathe again.
I can breathe much slower,
Pulling air deeply 
Into my famished lungs.

Yes child, that’s it,
Breathe.

I nod, and bare my hand,
The red stone in my open palm,
It was tinged with black,
Like a plague was spreading
Tainting its surface.

You won’t have to worry,
You’ll not be left a spinster,
You’ll be left,
Penniless, naked,
Alone in a ditch.

Wha… Wha…
The words slur incomplete.
My breath long but shallow,
My eyes open,
Unblinking.

Just breathe,
Let Mrs Delora liberate you,

Come take a seat with Mrs Delora.
Find the answers to your questions,
Discover your truths,
Explore your future,
And marvel at her talents.
But, beware,
You may find more than you seek,
You may learn more than you need,
And you may leave... Liberated!

The Sequel Child

Images move animatedly across the tv screen,
Sounds are blended into the background noise,
The foreground filled with heavy breathing,
The satiation of pleasure between two,
Summed up by title of ‘Netflix and chill.’

The sequel, a follow up on two series merging,
Finally born, gendered by the pink onsie,
The gentle curves of tassels and bows,
And the growing basket of perfectly painted,
Single expression, pose-able dolls.

Years of playing courting, marriage,
Nuclear house, one ken, one barbie, and baby,
Of traditionalism imposed in playtime, destroyed.
The babe who once played with dolls,
Becomes the doll in the tent playing with her bae.

Within a flash, the two are married,
Both taking and barrelling their surnames,
Living equal in their roles, life, and love,
Until the hourglass is empty,
And the grieving hold their umbrellas in the rain.

Stomp, Stomp, Stomp

Yous are ruining my life
Belts an immature Geordie tongue
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp
Up the stairs she runs.
Slam
She shuts the door.
Thump
She throws herself onto her bed.
 
I hate yous
Screeches her juvenile lungs
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp
Up the stairs she runs.
Slam
She shuts the door.
Thump
She throws herself onto her bed.
 
You’re not a very nice mummy
Shouts the crying child.
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp
Up the stairs she runs.
Slam
She shuts the door.
Thump
She throws herself onto her bed.
 *
I told her she couldn’t have chocolate for breakfast

Definition Lost

The scissors final snip liberates me of the locks over grown,
And creates a new silhouette around my face,
One that sat similar to a past one, but as a newer rendition.
The colour a combination of fading hues, out grown bleach, and dark roots,
The sides shaven short, and the top left long and loose.
I felt like a renewed me, a different individual,
No longer defined by the frugality of an overgrown home cut,
But shaped by the hands of a professional.
Living as though a person pampered, showered in shallow luxuries.
Looking at my reflection and regaining the power I felt for too long was lost.
But the power was not the item lost to me most,
No, for I have lost my definition.
 
I am at the whims of the family I hold together,
As my equal seems to drown in the life we have found ourselves in,
I hold afloat our raft, and provide for the three of us a sanctuary.
The safety net is spread wide enough to catch them and their baggage,
As my baggage is dragging through the murky waters behind us.
Each case holding a different aspect of me,
A portion hidden away indefinitely, until time allows me to unpack.
My heart cradles a child spawned from a careless woman.
A mother who desired a babe, but couldn’t protect the child,
Whose selfishness took over her instincts in favour of a demon.
 
The child loves me unconditionally, and I love more in return,
Handing over the remaining half of each breath I take,
Giving her each second heartbeat, and most every thought.
I ferry her across the unwelcoming seas, bearing the waves myself,
As she dances blissfully unaware of the storms we pass through.
But motherhood is not my definition, only an inherited title,
One I clench my hands tightly around to keep, but one I fear also.
 
I am spread thinly across each bag that floats along with us,
The literate, the musical, the angry, the calm, the loud, the quiet,
Among some of the guises interchangeably worn, but put back,
Restrained back into their hides, as I try to establish the singular face to wear,
Unknowingly losing any further identity in my search for one.
Writing under a name not given, but chosen, picked like cherries,
And not wanting liberation from anything other than myself.
 
Realizing maybe this is the meaning of grown, or maybe this is the meaning of trapped.

A Poisoned Womb

She disgusts me,
She boils my blood,
She makes sick,
She makes me hate.

Her poisoned womb made you love her,
Made you believe she's the best in the world,
Made you blind to all her faults,
Made you favour her always.

She angers me,
She grinds my gears,
She makes me miserable,
She makes me hurt.

Her poisonous personality put you in danger,
Neglected to keep you safe when it mattered
Made you endure this suffering,
Made you feel you couldn't speak up.

She makes me cry,
She makes me seethe,
She makes me depressed,
She is despicable.

Her poisoned childhood has ruined yours,
Made you vulnerable because she's sick,
Made you prey to her predator,
Made you victim to her selfishness.

She disgusts me,
She boils my blood,
She makes sick,
She makes me hate.
But,
She fucked up,
She made you hurt.
So,
I'll pick up the pieces,
I'll keep you safe,
I'll give you joy,
I'll show you love.

Lily Flower in the Storm

Small, fragile, and bursting with colour,
Sweet Lily flower sits beneath storm clouds,
But only sees the sun,
Bowing to its beauty,
Dancing petals across memories,
Before the rain that's soon to come.

Though the water weighs heavy,
And storm acts unrelenting,
Dear Lily flower stands firm,
As the drops pluck slowly at her soil.

Had I known before,
The hurt that rain would cause,
I'd have marched with my umbrella,
Held steadfast above her smile,
And bore the rain myself.

The soil she laid in was rotten,
And littered with debris,
So I softly moved the compost,
And pulled out all the weeds.

Now her roots have settled,
In the new garden she'll now grow,
Where I can watch over her,
And shield her from the storms.
Bare witness to her strength,
And the beauty that she holds.

Are There Cradles in Heaven?

The unborn soul haunts me,
Digging claws in deeper.
Pulling my feelings into contortion.
Why aren't they in Heaven?
Has she brought them here?
I wanted to be a good mother,
I wanted to hold her when she cried,
It was my fault I couldn't,
Not hers.
I was careless and stupid and young.

Are there cradles in Heaven?
Does a better person rock her to sleep at night?
Do they tell her she is loved and cared for?
Does she know I love her and I'm sorry?
Do they tell her I'm her mother?
Or am I the devil who left her there forever?

It's hard to be a woman
When you should have been a mother.
I'm in no high regard with God,
I'm written on none of the entry lists,
I accept this duly.

Has she grown at all?
She'd be older now, right?
Or is she cursed to her prenatal form?
Does her daddy visit her?
Does he look into her eyes with love?
Or does he avoid her gaze from hating me?