Crying Over Spilt Tea

This morning I spilt a full cup of tea
over the bed;
my hand simply gave way.
It happens.
Everything soaked through
including myself, and

you, the stoical carer
already overloaded with
extra chores, and a time  schedule
that used to belong to me,
rose calmly to the challenge,
stripped the bed,
placed stained linen carefully to soak
and went out the door
to collect our grandson
for the day.

From the corner of my eye
I could see it – disability
sitting on the sidelines
gloating, large as life
with a smugness I could have slapped.

Sometimes I feel like a child.

But unlike a child,
I watched your face as you
cleared the mess;
the pursed lips, unassailable truth
in the extra crease on a forehead,
that said
this wasn’t on today’s list.

We said nothing;
silence grew louder
until we both heard it –
the sadness, sobbing softly
for our loss.

Sonnet

I long for what I can no longer be,
strong limbs that move and never question how.
I long for who I can no longer see,
the one who disappeared and left me now
to tread life’s path a very different way;
a stranger in a world that I once knew
where land and sky just seem to fall away
and raging, rolling seas, my soul imbrue.
Until a shaft of light somewhere appears
and lulls the tempest to soft whispered waves
that ripple on the shore, allaying fears
restoring peace and hope my spirit craves.
The sun, the moon, the earth now realigned,
and I am who I thought I’d left behind.

A Bad Good Dream

A Bad Good Dream

Eyes half open
you realize it’s morning
and although a dream-soaked
forest of night,
star-scattered moon path,
insisted everything was well
and as before –
so excited you found you could run,
right arm normal again
pointing full stretch toward a Snowy Owl –
daylight now smirks a different truth.
You slide from the bed
good side first,
drag a broken body to the bathroom.
The mirror witnesses it all;
tsunami in a single tear of sadness.

 

This is just how it goes sometimes. Writing and sharing dilutes these emotions, restores gratitude, and maybe others going through the same feelings may at least realise they are not alone.

Disability

She doesn’t wear it well,

it doesn’t suit, not her style;

some things just make you look old.

But she hadn’t read the small print –

no refund available,

exchange maybe, if unworn.

There’s plenty she would change;

freedom to walk her dog for a start,

spontaneous trips out by herself,

baking those delicate pastry things.

It’s too late now,

she’s worn it for too long,

but she still doesn’t wear it well.

Slip Sliding

 

This morning when I woke up
I could feel it;
it’s been hovering for weeks,
inescapable feeling of losing grip,
oil-coated life slipping
through slithery-dithery hands.
Dependant on so many
for so much,
each doing their
not-good-enough best
because it’s not my way;
simultaneous overspill of gratitude;
Thank you for this, thank you so much for that;
I appreciate all your help, I really do…

 I feel confused,
angry
and sad.
None of this was in the plan,
not mine.
Mine was to fly free,
up high among birds in a limitless sky,
oyster-world opportunities, well-earned.
So whose plan is this,
and why?
Or is it simply nature
being as cruel as it can be kind?

First Love

First Love

We were together three years, you and I.
The sketch you drew of The Beatles
for my bedroom wall was so good,
far too good to be torn
into a thousand pieces.

I let them flutter from the bedroom
window among the snow, hoping
they would melt with the thaw
but they were still there and
I had to sweep them away.

And I hoped that if I unravelled
every stitch from the jumper I knit you,
hurtful memories would uravel too,
but they just lay there in a shrivelled
heap, much more bitter than sweet.

Your mother sent me a kind letter
saying how much she liked me
with a well-meaning
consolation prize,
nylon stockings,
American tan with seams.
I never wore them;
I preferred tights.

Wendy L. Macdonald

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