No Arms to Hold Her #suicide #poetry

Captive in the frame
Captive in the frame

She died again today

for the thirty-fifth time

my heart relives the day

it’s frozen in my mind

No one listened to her cries

not the ones a difference makes

we were still just silly kids

this fiend her spirit did break

who excuses such an act

laugh and look the other way

family guilty all

it was no three act play

others I believe

were broken by this man

girls all were they

when did decency forget to stand?

too late for my dear friend

ropes easy knots to tie

no expression til the last

hide the truth, yes tell your lies

She died again today

for the thirty-fifth time

my heart relives the day

it’s frozen in my mind

 

Sharing this with Poetry Pantry at Poets United. This poem is a part two to my poem written earlier this week about rape and abused women.

Counter Weight #Suicide #poetry #photography

stairs up

I wait here

dangling on the edge

of this forever night

afraid to take a breath

less

you breathe your last

back and forth

 I will the hands back

to when you were a child

with a song

always on your lips

look around

at anything but the present

circumstances

hold a butterfly

rather than

 what can’t be changed

and your life

is it worth dangling

from a chain

no longer winding the clock

the beat of your heart

frozen on your lips

air that I’m afraid

to breathe

Oksana – a story of survival #dailypost #children #world #Atozchallenge

painted rose

Oksana -It seems but days ago that you sat on my lap rattling off words in English proud of your ability to master  languages.

I present you with a new challenge to start at, a skill – teaching. “Oksana, take these pictures of words and hold them as you point to them. First say the word in your language, then say the word slowly in English.  Very slowly form the letters  “R_AB_BIT. ” Atleechna you are a natural.”

My eyes sparkle as I look at the proud face of a woman who never knew she would be a mama and certainly not at 65.  “Nina be happy. Oksana will make you proud. At six she is fluent in Russian and English and is attacking Polish.”

Oksana holds the cards with hands that barely shake. Just tiny reminders of the drug addiction she had as a baby. “Yes, you will grow beautiful like the rose and your knowledge of the world like its thorns will keep you strong.”

I silently remove the picture of a bottle from the stack of cards. It too closely resembles the scores of bottles that Oksana’s mama found herself wrapped around. They found Oksana’s mama at the bottom of her bottle one day; a screaming 5-year-old clutching to her ankles. “What was it you poured for yourself? Sleeping pills and Vodka? The Vodka never hid the scars that you got from your husband’s beatings did it? Oksana’s little body only survived because your body shielded her. Your older son Sasha was not so fortunate. What pile of broken glass does he lie under?  Prison is too good a place for a man who uses broken Vodka bottles to tattoo his son using blood as ink.”

‘”Da,” Oksana very good. You pronounced WA_TER well,  just a tiny hint of a V, but not much. Nina your love has cleansed this girl like water. Yes, she will always be old for her years and bear a certain sorrow, but look at her radiant smile.”

“Dance Oksana dance with the children as they play in the waves of the Azov Sea. Fly high with the gull;  he too has much knowledge of the world he sees below him. Crimea is etched with scars well hidden  in the sunlight, but you understand them.”

“Persevere Nina, this is a job for a young woman. The energy and vitality of this young mind will test you. Be strong for her. For one day Oksana will be a strong woman. She will hold the hands of other young girls who suffer at the point of the needle, are cast offs, or are used by men for momentary pleasure. Shield her from her mother and father’s world. She will always wear the scars like Crimea, but she will hopefully wear bravery like a crown.”

****

I have fictionalized the story of a young girl I met while working in the Crimea enough so she can’t be identified. “Oksana’s” story is one of victory because she was rescued by a compassionate woman who lived in the neighborhood. “Oksana” would have otherwise joined her mama soon as most of the discarded children of that country do.

ctapaen-bottle-graphic-design

A2Z-2013-BADGE-001Small_zps669396f9 (1)

I’m also using this story for the Daily Post at WordPress. The challenge is to write three paragraphs (Person Place and Thing), though you can choose to write more or less if you wish — the goal is to get you watching closely, observing, and collecting people, places, and things to use in your creative writing projects. It’ s story that I believe is poignant and needs to be told.

 

Misunderstood #poetry #pain #photography

Window – Holocaust Museum

I look from a point of no reprieve

behind the pained glass window

light flickers in the trees

people pass smiling as they go

it feels like?

looks like?

is…

I breathe in – precarious I’m standing

little oxygen

less understanding

this lack makes my head spin

it feels like?

looks like?

is…

I plaster my face to the glass

can’t they see inside

what of them should I ask

as they travel quickly by

it feels like?

looks like?

is…

I wonder does it matter

flailing against the glass

they watch as the pain does  shatter

looking upon bloodied ruin as they pass

it feels like?

looks like?

is…

Photograph “Holocaust Window” L. Moon copyright 2012

Damaged Goods #poetry #flashfiction

It hung limply

collar-bone unnaturally protruded

sockets where lights had beamed

dangled with no spark

fingers that had grasped another’s in trust

Clear notes like fine crystal

hopes of Opera

smoky bars and sleazy dumps

croaking semblance of sound

talent

beauty

dreams

DOA the tag on her toe hung from under a cold  lifeless sheet

Flash Fiction certainly isnt DOA as it is in the capable hands of the host G-Man. Who tho on the road manages 55 words none-the-less

One Day Away #poetry #suicide

One day soon

I will walk away

where you ask

neither matters

nor the day

*

i have found

too hard to bear

this shallow orb

few listen

fewer care

*

beseeching

hand stretches for me

look at the colors

feel the wind

light flicker in the trees

*

yes  i’ve seen beauty

and more

heard all  nature

crescendoed  sound

beckoning at the shore

*

it’s not the world

I care to leave

it’s the broken heart

fragile tears

love bereaved

*

do not miss me

when i’m gone

walk the beaches

touch her beauty

in her be strong

I shared this poem over at the Poetry Pantry hosted by Poets United

Photography ‘Solemn Walk”  L. Moon copyright 2011

If I die young … #MicroFiction

A single tear dropped on the ivory lettered page in tribute to her beloved Pete.

He had wanted to live life fully, romantically, and on the edge.

“Oh Pete you didn’t need to get that close to the edge – you might still be with me now had you stayed on the path.

So if I die young it will not be because I was married to a gorgeous man with laser like blue eyes that pour desire and love into my being.

My last touch will not be touching the bronze skin of a beautiful, muscled athlete.

Lips will not kiss sweetness that exude words of love and praise

If I die young, it will be because I carelessly swerve  in front of a semi having no desire to live this life alone without the man who placed a

band of gold on my finger less than three years ago~~~~~

Oh PETE!!!!!!”

 

Thanks to Jenny at  SaturdayCentus for the prompt  “If I die young”