Voices Of The Past



Hello reader, just a side note here, I’ll be putting these poems on my podcast in May and discussing my journey. The podcast is KDOI Podcasting click on the link, there is 3 seasons worth of art, discussion, interviews projects and more.
Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem about something mysterious and spooky! Your poem could be about something that is mysterious and spooky in a bad way (like a witch), or mysterious and spooky in a good way (possibly also like a witch? It depends on the witch, I guess!) Or just the everyday, mysterious, spooky quality of being alive.

Voices Of The Past

13 April 2019

We always go back to a call don’t we

If I had my way I’d rid my life of phones

cut off contact and live peacefully

This call – from the fiend – telling me my mothers heart gave out with a touch of glee

Instantly I was at the hospital two days later I woke

staring into her newly opened eyes

the fire still glowing, waiting to be released

She tried to speak- her mouth opened awkwardly

the vocal chords moved underneath her paper think skin

but not a squeak was produced

She was silenced, but present

first astonished, then worries, flowed into panic and flared to wild beast insanity

Grabbing her hand, rubbing her arm

holding her close, the silent tears and sobs come

We began work when the gentle shushing calmed her

nods were first, then sounds, when we hit the alphabet at day five, the speech therapist came in

My job threatened to fire me

then my boss came by, he didn’t have to ask how long till I returned

and there was a fresh pack of smokes each day delivered

She was going to talk before I came back

When we hit a week, how sweet that Sunday was, the fiend would parade around like a peacock, getting pity and sympathy from all around

I stood up to go outside for a smoke, she looked up at me and I took her outside

We shared in my car the only communion I would take with her

Back into the hospital we went, and just in time

the fiend’s insurance ran out and now it was time to go home

I set her up on the couch, her usual bed, put the news on so she could practice her words and sounds

The therapist came for about a week and nodded and was there when my name was said, my work done, the therapist left, I left and in six years she would be dead

But twenty years later there I was teaching another woman who came into my life was sitting on my lap learning words and phrases

alphabets and days a places. She shares the same middle name as my mother, and eyes and fire inside

I’ve asked her where my mother resides, and she touches my chest and then her head, in the same voice as my mother said two decades ago, she loves me to the end

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