guilt

All posts tagged guilt

“False Friend”

Published October 16, 2011 by Susan Woodward

Must you hurt me again and again?

How will I ever know love if you constantly

Pull me in the wrong direction?

Oh, I thought I’d had it at times

But control, lust, anger and fear got in the way…

Yeah, all that directed at me

As if I were an unappealing force to be reckoned with

And broken

While I stood there taking it

But not accepting it,

Trembling inside.

 

How could you let me get here this time?

What is it about you

That allows me to make these same mistakes?

I thought you were so smart…

 

Pain so deep I can’t cry it out;

Not enough tears to wash it away,

Hanging on a “maybe” as if it meant “yes”

Only to be disappointed again,

Crying myself to sleep.

 

Why can’t anyone love me?

Or should I say “won’t” ‘cause love is a decision.

All deciding I’m not good enough

Either by walking away

Or else trying to change me,

Make me conform to their image of what I “ought” to be…

Not someone to love as I am, huh?

 

Stop looking at me like that,

Like I should know better!

Maybe if you spoke up once in a while

My heart would be spared a trampling or two!

 

With a cry of frustration

I lash out in my hurt,

Propelling my fist full force into your face

Only to pick glass from bleeding knuckles.

 

“Mom, Me”

Published October 16, 2011 by Susan Woodward

At 21, my days were filled with Big Bird and diapers,

And All My Children;

Studying consisted of a minute scrutiny of fingers, toes and chubby cheeks.

Pouring over books was a stolen delight after the

Laundry was loaded and the

Kitchen was cleaned and

Freshly bathed babies were sleeping silently curled in their cribs–

I turned off the tube and sat with steaming orange pekoe

Sticking my nose in another world for hours.

My mind jaunting between

London and Dragheda–

At King’s Cross, I tried to discern how I would know the difference between

A Frenchman and a Belgian while thoughts of

Richard Chamberlain danced through my head in Australia

To the tune of the ABC’s; it was never far away!

“Mommy, play a game with me” ended with

Candy Land or Chutes and Ladders.

Spring days were spent poking holes in the yard so that

Little fingers could put seeds to bed;

Summer found us lying on the grass willing for them to wake up.

At last! A bean-leaf uncurls in slow motion–

It was a long hour, but well worth the child’s expression.

The tomatoes swelled and my belly swelled and I wondered

Which would be harvested first– the tomatoes won,

But I had the last laugh as small hands helped me place them

In glass jars for the winter.

Before long it was time to reap the fruits of my own labor;

A Robin entered the nest to bring my little flock to

Three pairs of eyes that watched my every move and

Called out my name—

Their adoration fed my ego.

Seeking a larger audience, I performed in

Oklahoma while listening to

Voices in the Attic singing

A Christmas Carol as

The Miracle Worker played for me

The Sound of Music.

Confidence was sown in applause

And a thirst for more germinated.

It was then that I decided to expand my mind and my debt.

My days became filled with Big Macs and deadlines,

And All My Children were wondering when Mom would be back (5 now);

Studying became a minute scrutiny of facts, tables and chubby Chaucer.

Pouring over books lost its delight in the quest for a better me;

Laundry lying around and the

Kitchen in chaos and not always knowing if the

Babies were sleeping soundly on the sitter’s sofa–

I turned on the tube and sat with cold coffee

Fixing their focus on another world for hours.

Too much of my time spent jaunting between

Libraries and Kinkos–

I learned the difference between France and Belgium–

But there was no fun in that.

I even went to King’s Cross, but didn’t see anyone familiar.

Thoughts of Richard Nixon, Richard Wright and Richard III

Clashed in my head;

ABC’s became IBM’s;

“Mommy, play a game with me” ended with making sure

Jumanji was re-wound first.

Spring nights spent poking keys long after

Little fingers and toes were washed and put to bed;

Lying three hours wishing I never had to get up.

Would love to watch the bean-leaves uncurl,

But I don’t have the hour–

Is their expression worth it?

In the background the T.V. chants the question

“Where in the World is Carmen San Diego?”

And I long to sit down and help my kids find the answer,

But as I work, the chant runs through my mind

Changing the words to form the question

“What in the world is the Whitman Tradition?”

I’m afraid to look at the answer

While Leaves of Grass blow through my mind

Painfully telling me things I already knew before I recognized that I knew them.

I’ve graduated from living Whitman to learning Whitman.

The parchment shows I’ve done my job well, but

I’ve spent fourteen years with two sets of kids–

One in the garden,

One in the library;

Who got the better me?

 

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