Another superstorm breached

Groceries tumbled

Shattered glass

Broken pasta

Spilt milk

Mayhem

In the chaos I'd cry out for you

"What's the matter?" You'd say

As if you didn't know…

And I believed you were my protector,

My knight in shining armour

My savior

My everything

And then one day I wondered….

Why did you leave me in the storm?

Thick-skinned,hard-headed

over critical perfectionist,

wore oil-stained

workman clothes

and ruled 4 kids with iron fist.

Fathered young

loved to cook

took us cycling every week,

raised by belt

couldn’t read or write

but worked damn hard for us kids.

No love expressed

no hugs at night

his whole life

spent in sacrifice,

he didn’t always

get it right

but even so,

I still love him.

my dad,

was my superhero—

not because he did something great,

he never understood me and he had a terrible job; he was my superhero because he was there when I had to cry, he was there when I needed to have a good time, he was my father and I was proud to call him that.

But I was living in a movie.

Overtime I witnessed the death of my superhero,

as he drank to numb the pain,

lost in an illusion,

no longer here with me.

I no longer recognized him,

he was not my father...

and now,

without thinking really hard,

I forget that I even have a father.

i don’t know who my father really is.

like the movies,

I hope this story ends with happiness

(but I know it will never truly happen).

He is a blood,

Loving,

Psychopath!

Nah, I’m joking,

But he is crazy.

Tells the worst jokes-

Can’t stop talking sometimes,

Always happy tho-

Always happy...

But don’t let that blind your vision.

He’s a weirdo.

Even for me.

Probably where I get it from...

Dad turned on music from the

Gruffalo, just because he

knows it calms me down;

he whistles along like a

mockingbird, repeats

the tune as if he’s a

music box

I’m sure it wouldn’t help to

tell him I feel just like the little

ballerina inside-

spinning until I drop.

They wind me up, they do,

think it’s a game as I twirl to

and fro.

but still he whistles along

I can hear him in the backround

of every song I write,

every poem I recite

every word I say

repeating it all until it

means

nothing

and they say imitation

is the most sincere form

of flattery, but I think he

does it just to make me

feel less important

less unique

My fingers are warm

Sunlight turns them reddish gold,

a flash of gorgeous colour

Sandy beaches and the sweeping shadows of palm trees

Night comes, Colours fade to grey,

my hands retreat, hiding in my pockets.

You run away with the setting sun

Hidden in plain sight, I search for you,

but all that remains is a silhouette.

Custody court cuts us loose,

our bodies carried on the waves of your erruption.

Darkness.

Years lost to hazy dreaming

Silent pangs in my heart,

old pictures hidden in shoeboxes.

A necklace I pawned for $40.

A name from a language and culture I do not know, yet am a part of.

A brother to look up to.

A love for honey soaked sweets and fresh garlic.

A mother in survival mode.

A brief shining moment.

Now, barely a memory.

(To say you are dead to me would be wrong. You were always an abstract concept, a mythological existence. Never truly alive, how could you die?)

Ghosts can’t bring you flowers

even when they talk through the wind

and the wind can’t reach out

to embrace you

even when it knocks you

off your feet

silence from end to end

and a tendency to

hurt me bad

You’ve been gone forever

but why won’t you

stay like that?

Goner -{renata ferretti}

*on*

*off*

*on*

*off*

*on*

*off*

like a light switch

(we're either best friends)

(or he annoys the heck out of me)

Nonexistent

There was never a connection

My life filled with rejection

Dotted with pain

Father was cold and uncaring

Deplorable even in death

One last slap in my face

His last will sealed what I knew

I was never wanted

Merely a by-product of lust

There are silver linings

Thankful to be raised by another

Taken under a strong wing

Raised as his own

Loved and cared for

All was not lost

I was blessed to call another man Dad

10.12.20

2:00am Musings of a post menopausal insomniac mind

On stage we fight choreographed

Each foot movement muscle memory

In the same repeated scene for every show

Your first blow is underhand, pretending

To be something it's not

Or maybe you really think it's harmless,

Pointing a poison dart like that

And I swing my sword, hands gripping

Arms moving before I even think to react,

Ingrained in my body

From this repeating dance

And I keep on sliding daggers up my sleeves

And I keep on letting the tips slip out,

Just a little,

Glint in the stage lights

Asking for the spiked shields I know

You never fail to throw up

But it's a small show

With a private audience

When faced with the uncaring eyes of the world,

Our private audience nowhere to be seen,

We leave our weapons backstage and

Go out for coffee and hot chocolate and

Now my daggers are out in the open so

You don't bother with the poisons darts

Or the shields, in fact

You can even set them completely aside now and then

So why do we keep on going back on the stage?

I think you've noticed her eyes reflecting the stage lights

From the empty rows of audience seats

And suddenly she's a threat

And in your eyes, I'm on

Her side