My Mum died of a broken heart at 64, but her twin died at 87 after smoking 40-a-day. Its stress that kills, naught else.
This is for my ma-in-law, Anne, who at 89 is still my best friend. I was lucky enough to have 3 mothers.
She gave me,
More love,
Than
My own mother.
My own mum,
Too ill,
Too sad,
To love anymore.
Her heart,
Broken,
By sudden
Death.
Over
And over,
And over,
Again.
Her father,
Nazi shock,
Her brother,
Gestapo,
Her son,
A car crash.
And now
Another son
To cancer.
And I follow,
Meekly,
Sucked into
The vortex
Of her misery,
Wanting death,
Wanting to be rid
Of the eternal,
Infernal
Pains.
But here
In my head,
None of you are
Dead,
As I waltz
With my grandfather,
Swimming round
The Viennese ballroom,
Lavished
In crimson velvet,
And delicate, white
Blossoms.
I am five,
As we run
Together,
Two,
Big brothers
And I.
Carefree,
Innocent,
No hint of
Future
Tragedy.
And once more
The sheer pleasure
Of laughing with you,
Grandad,
With your
Crinkly, blue
Eyes,
You never could
Keep a straight
Face,
Even when
You were angry
With me.
Am I six or seven?
I lie,
Enfolded
Between
My mother's
Legs,
Deep in her bed,
I luxuriate
In my duvet
Womb.
Then suddenly,
All is barren,
Harsh,
Stark
And bare,
No love
Survived
His massacre.
A child-man
At nineteen,
Who
Died for no
Reason.
Just the cold whim
Of fate.
Just a coin flipped
In blood,
An empty scream
Against the
Agony of fate.
She could scream
No more,
Just lay down
On a bed of
Defeat.
Seven,
And I remember
He is dead.
So Rosa
Took me to
The enchanted shop,
To soothe my wounds
With toys and dolls,
And promised me
Anything,
Everything,
Just to stop,
The empty,
Weeping,
Futile
Teardrops.
And with more love
Than my own
Mother.
Poetry by Esti D-G
Read 1616 times
Written on 2007-05-15 at 00:24
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This is for my ma-in-law, Anne, who at 89 is still my best friend. I was lucky enough to have 3 mothers.
More Love Than My Mother
She gave me,
More love,
Than
My own mother.
My own mum,
Too ill,
Too sad,
To love anymore.
Her heart,
Broken,
By sudden
Death.
Over
And over,
And over,
Again.
Her father,
Nazi shock,
Her brother,
Gestapo,
Her son,
A car crash.
And now
Another son
To cancer.
And I follow,
Meekly,
Sucked into
The vortex
Of her misery,
Wanting death,
Wanting to be rid
Of the eternal,
Infernal
Pains.
But here
In my head,
None of you are
Dead,
As I waltz
With my grandfather,
Swimming round
The Viennese ballroom,
Lavished
In crimson velvet,
And delicate, white
Blossoms.
I am five,
As we run
Together,
Two,
Big brothers
And I.
Carefree,
Innocent,
No hint of
Future
Tragedy.
And once more
The sheer pleasure
Of laughing with you,
Grandad,
With your
Crinkly, blue
Eyes,
You never could
Keep a straight
Face,
Even when
You were angry
With me.
Am I six or seven?
I lie,
Enfolded
Between
My mother's
Legs,
Deep in her bed,
I luxuriate
In my duvet
Womb.
Then suddenly,
All is barren,
Harsh,
Stark
And bare,
No love
Survived
His massacre.
A child-man
At nineteen,
Who
Died for no
Reason.
Just the cold whim
Of fate.
Just a coin flipped
In blood,
An empty scream
Against the
Agony of fate.
She could scream
No more,
Just lay down
On a bed of
Defeat.
Seven,
And I remember
He is dead.
So Rosa
Took me to
The enchanted shop,
To soothe my wounds
With toys and dolls,
And promised me
Anything,
Everything,
Just to stop,
The empty,
Weeping,
Futile
Teardrops.
And with more love
Than my own
Mother.
Poetry by Esti D-G
Read 1616 times
Written on 2007-05-15 at 00:24
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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