Free fall

A wild crescendo of grief 
ignites from deep within.
Alarmed, I see no obvious shelter
from this havoc and chaotic din.

No longer the sure footed woman 
who painstakingly conquered this place, 
I wobble, panic and then topple 
over this sudden, unseen precipice.

Now mid G force 8 of free fall,
parachute unopened in it's pack,
I'm hurtling towards the earth. 
Crikey, I'm going to hit it with a 'SMACK.' 

I search desperately for escape routes, 
not easy when panic and grief blur thought.
I gasp for air, squeezed from my lungs, 
perhaps in a huge cargo net I'll be caught!
 
I'm not sure how I came up with that, 
like a kid's cartoon on TV.
Maybe I'll not manage to reach the end, 
or perhaps there is a way to save me.

As I fall the cacophony grows louder,
wind whistling in my ears.
My shuddering sobs now accompanied 
by an overflowing river of tears. 

I feel so utterly despondent.
My thoughts are not controlled nor are they straight.
Except I know I don't want be pulverised,
that would not at all be great!

I cannot think my way out of this pickle. 
I must simply surrender to the test.
All I have I give to it
and I can only give my best.

Now my sobs diminish
and remarkably my descent begins to slow.
I fumble with my parachute,
pulling the release cord to let it go.

A jolt and then not quite so much terror 
above the hazy ground.
I open up my swollen eyes
to contemplate landing safe and sound.

If only crash mats and landing specialists 
appeared at each attack of personal despair,
it wouldn't be so hard to navigate
a free fall through the air.
 
This grief that's lodged inside me
is the cause of all this anguish
and to be quite frank, I'm fed up with it.
I'm sick of feeling rubbish.
 
I don't know how to get rid of it,
to free myself from pain.
It's a bloody noose around my neck,
a bloody ball and chain!
 
Sigh! At least I landed with dignity intact.
My best roly poly with a flourish in years.
And I suppose no real lasting damage done, 
except mild dehydration due to all those tears.

 

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I’ll sit here whilst you sleep

I'll sit here whilst you sleep
so you don't wake up alone.
I'll speak to you often or
every day on the phone.

I'll listen when you want to talk.
I'll not judge what you need to say.
I'll be calm when you're overwhelmed,
an anchor so you don't lose your way.

With my words I'll try to help heal you.
With your spirit mine walks too.
I'll hold your hand in silence
when weariness paralyses you.

Exhaustion is a daily challenge
as well as years of strain.
But don't you worry my brother,
I'll be right beside you in your pain.

We may be older, but you are still
my little brother whom I'll protect.
I wish I could right the wrongs for you, 
those years of bitter words and neglect.

I'm so proud of your integrity,
the honourable way you live.
I'll support you and encourage you,
acknowledging all that you regularly give.

We're kindred spirits you and I.
I hope you feel the same.
So when you need to weep and 
let go, please don't feel ashamed.

You will get better. I know it's hard
to trust this process has an end,
but bit by bit you will improve.
I see that you're already on the mend.

But until the day you feel like you.
I'll be right here by your side.
And though you feel so uncertain, 
I feel such a sense of pride.

I know it feels like two steps forward 
and then one giant leap back.
I'd move mountains if I could for you 
or trade places so I could take some flak.

Have faith, my brother and know that soon 
you'll be a new version of yourself.
But until that time tell me what you need,
I'll always be here to help.

The woman at house 43

The woman who lives at house forty three
has got six children. (That's six more than me.)
How does she cope with her workload?
It's a logistical challenge just crossing the road!

I think she's had a life that's quite tough.
Her eyes are vacant and her voice is quite gruff.
She has wiry hair and is as thin as a rake
and when she talks her hands tremble and shake.

I can hear them coming from some distance away.
She shouts and she shrieks at her kids every day.
When she walks with the buggy, she strides at a pace.
The children behind her jog along in a race.

The men who frequent her house look like trouble.
She comes to the door still away in her bubble.
Her face looks so drawn as she laughs through her daze.
The man in the car drives off as she waves.

A little while later a toddler escapes.
She's forgotten to close one of the gates.
He picks at the weeds that grow in the drive
dressed only in nappies. A miracle of life.

He stumbles bare foot close to the road.
Hairs rise on my skin and there's a lump in my throat.
In two seconds flat he's held in my arms,
this blond headed boy that's now safe from harm.

He looks at me startled, but doesn't utter a sound.
Grubby faced innocence. His cheeks smooth and round.
His body relaxes as I whisper reassurance
a smile appears with a shy sideways glance.

My thoughts can't be stifled as I think of his mum,
I'd like to do her a favour by keeping this one.
I'd love him and raise him as if he were mine.
I'd nurture and praise him and give him my time.

Perhaps she'll not notice if I take him with me
to become part of my own longed for family.
I'm sure she can make do with one less off-spring.
In fact, she may thank me for taking him in.

The toddler is holding me tight as I stand
in front of his door. (This is not what I'd planned.)
His mother appears and he's whisked away
to join his siblings and be told 'Shut up and play!'

Occasionally I see him or hear him cry
the toddler in nappies with piercing blue eyes.
I nod at his mother when she passes me,
this world-weary woman at house forty three.

But several weeks later, we see that they've left.
(We'd seen police people in thick stab-proof vests!)
I still think of that child and the life that he'll lead.
That where ever he is, he will thrive and succeed.