Here is my second attempt to start my weekly publishing of poetry. (I loss my whole dang post last week).
I used to always love poems.
As a young girl and teen I would trapes into the lonely woods, find someplace pretty and inspiring to sit and write, what I am sure was, very bad and dramatic poetry.
What ever happened to that shabby secret spiral notebook anyway?
I got away from poetry, but have recenlty been re-acquainted with the beauty and simplicity of them, through my devotional readings from the book, Streams in the Desert. Nearly every reading ends in a poem. I have found my self copying at least a stanza or two down to pin up somewhere in my home to serve as something inspirtational and beautifully written for me to scan and absorb, even if in only bits, during my less than glamorous and genteel life.
The poem I have selected to start my "Poetic Sundays" is not a piece that has ever been published, and no please don't get scared, it not any of my own pathetic attempts.
The following poem was written in the 1970s by my Grandmother on my father's side.
I am unsure if she ever shared this with anyone.
After her death in 2000, one of my Aunts printed out a copy of one of her poems and gave it to several family members.
Anyone who is a mother, who has struggled with loneliness, and the felt the heavy weight of responsibility, a responsibility that affords little time to ones self, will most surly relate.
On a personal note,I will share that my grandmother bore and raised 8 children. Her last were twins at the age of 45 years old. One of the twins, my uncle Chad, was born with Downs Syndrome. This was in the early 70s, and understanding for this disease was not very wide-spread. The common practice was still at this time to immediately institutionalize any children with Downs. My grandparents did not.
But my grandmother was severely depressed and felt let down by God, with the birth of "Chaddy". But as all "burdens" that God has us to bear, this child served to be such a blessing to the entire family. My grandfather and him were inseperable. My grandmother's poem is about being a mother in general not just a mother of a child with special needs.
I hope you enjoy and offer up a prayer of thanks for your own mother.
The Mother's Prison
Near my house there's a field of flowers,
You can hear the winds in the pines.
The call of the wildbirds singing,
I've heard it a thousand times.
But, I do not leave my prison,
Though my spirit encrusted with care,
She whispers, "You've time, go now quickly
Just open the door and you're there".
The walls were erected by duty
With mortar, of hope and tears.
While an endless procession of sentries,
Stand guard through the waiting years.
They are kind, my innocent jailors,
And I know they would have me free.
For they leave the door half open,
They have taken away the key,
I will not stay lost my guardant.
I will find it again and again.
Then I place it into the keyhole.
All alone, I close me in.
For love is the key that holds me.
Yet, I almost was free one day.
I had gotten as far as the hedgerow,
When there it stood in my way.
It brought me back to my prison,
And part of my heart was glad,
When I bolted the door, I cried though,
For part of my heart was sad.
If ever you see an old woman
Who is lost and alone outside,
Don't try to return her with kindness,
For too many people have tried.
Just listen above the treetops
To the wild and joyous refrain,
"Alone at last, I am alone now,
Today I am me again".