“Uncover what your soul has never forgotten.” – Jess Kille
broken young
a tender life damaged
two steps forward
four back
healing a mangled heart
is a life’s mission
to reveal the impairment
and right the wrongs
the journey inward
reveals the hurt
and the self-preservation
of the mind and the body
the grown adult
meets the inner child
with love and acceptance
the healing begins
silent borders
sleeping
on your side
of the bed
feels
transgressive
inhabiting
a bigger shape
a different space
a provocation
poem for a relative
we meet in dreams
younger versions of ourselves
carefree
the before times
when we could laugh
this family
still precious
no lines drawn
afterwards
still sitting alone in the car
i hear wind rocking
autumn-stripped branches
watch a magpie
socially distanced
on the wire fence beside
a plump wood pigeon
i listen
a lullaby of trees & sky
clouding over
& thoughts swirl
whisper
into poems
dawn-green
i sing you
our lost goodbyes
melting into ash
there is green
& there is green
i listen
still
recovery
sunny
breezy
ages since I
it felt nice
to go
further
although
it did get a bit
warm
& the wind against me
(where did that come from?)
average heart rate better
still a way to go
counting sea monsters
my father’s eyes
simply rumours
undone
seeing faces in clouds
those who went before
threnody
unmeasured
we depart
without ever
rippling
the pond
flow(er)ing
a creature of
leaf & echo
she talks
her mouth
rainfall
a tangle of treebones
she walks
her eyes twin flames
searing hearts &
spitting rainbows
the she word
sheathing swords
planting seeds
we are more than
vessel
more than
form & function
this wom(b)an
this lay/dee
in rosehip dreams
those voices
silent
silenced
letting these
small moments
grow
rapture
this time
we are advocate
we are anthem
sonic flotations
dainty renegades
bruise blue
rewilding
freefalling
as thimbles of
resurrected light
cradle our final
words
~~~
Jane Ayres was shortlisted for the 2021 Aesthetica Creative Writing Award. Her first collection ‘edible‘ was published by Beir Bua Press (July 2022), and micro-chapbook ‘my lost womb still sings to me‘ published by Porkbelly Press (October 2023) janeayreswriter.wordpress.com Jane was first featured in 2020, and was nominated for the 2022 Pushcart Prize for her piece – remembering. You can find all her work HERE.
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what’s good to eat here
i sure hope grandma is ok
we need healthy food
“Dead family walking!”
The family was chaotic from day one.
They being an absentee, alcoholic father, and a probably-suffering-from-a-mental-illness mother not understanding love.
A child being cheated out of something before her existence had ever really begun.
So many unusual life lessons played out where mediocrity would flourish.
Determined small steps tested the authorities; she tried where she could.
Her willingness to rise above engaged with her persistently in the aftermath of their lives.
She took control of all in her realm, determined to do what was best.
The past is now safely in the rear-view mirror.
Today promised ever-increasing clarity going forward.
**Forgive me, Reena. This wasn’t written today, but your prompt reminded me of this piece I wrote back in 2018. With today being Thanksgiving and your challenge speaking to thankfulness in a unique situation, this poem seemed to fit the request. It reminds me to be grateful precisely for that which tried to hold me down or keep me from success.
a tender embrace
with such loving protection
sibling so lucky
feeling joyful and light
but always waiting for the thickness
of the air to creep in
weighing down my contentedness felt
a momentary calm before the storm
until my mind sucks the buoyancy out of the air
being in the moment moves on much too quickly
generational dysfunction and ptsd
a blight on my reality
it sucks
Redux
finally tasting
what it means to be proud
of myself
it took too many years
for me to be free
from the contempt
the shame
your shame
forced on me
always making me feel smaller
than you were
knocking me down
me losing my identity
giving up my right to believe in myself
what a horrible mother you were
damn you
treading water
for years
wasted years
of frustration and tears
pushing hard
to break barriers
and maintain
sure would have been easier
knowing my value
you were supposed to be on my side
damn you
did it without you
lived an honorable, scarred life
healed all the wounds
inside and out
ups and downs
gains with each effort
failure was not
an option
because
you weren’t ever my safety net
damn you
me
now
so much better than what was
my time has come
achieving my greatness
feeling good in my skin
owning the center
whole, and comprehending peace
it raises me above your pettiness
and your disgusting competition
finally
damn girl,
so proud of you
Originally posted 1/29/2018 on I Write Her.
The history of my ancestors clings stubbornly to my DNA. I feel a sense of belonging to the tribe of tattered spirits roaming in the garden of my past; their lives are embedded in me and shed light on my capabilities. Like an eager apprentice who hungers for more knowledge of the stories of days gone by, I walk with the ghost’s tales until my body is weary. I hope to salvage their frayed and fragile utterances and weave them into my present. Their skills passed down to me propelled me into a bright future. I’m grateful to my predecessors.
they were already broken
when poor decisions
led to a new life
and another
and another
and another
and then another
luckily, only two of us
had to survive
the uncertain and chaotic world
with a distant father
and a mentally unstable mother
we survived
barely
boldly reclaiming the pieces
of our shattered existence
trying to steer away from repeating all the mistakes made
hopefully, ending up not looking at their same cracked reflection
Routine
Easy for you to assign blame
to the weaker in the clan
your stance sums respect
standardized by elders
no softies get auditions
You Will Never Know
I saw you rowing stealthily
from the pale shore
suspended in purple mist
sent up a prayer—
that’s what big sisters do—
your upswing or your undoing
Cleansed (of excess)
A small empty boat I was
floating in the lake of knowledge
small I return to my home port
but empty I am no more
You Smiled at Me
One more round—
oh, how the years add up
I learn to live without
our visits
In the pocket of the coat
I kept for you
I pull out your favorite lipstick.
Slowly I walk to the mirror and
swipe the stick on my upper lip,
below the Cupid’s bow
I smack my lips together,
tenderly, and watch you smile
back at me in my reflection.
Grief
At the end of the month
is my birthday
mail will arrive, friends will text
by the dozen
but when the landline rings
I will not answer
I already know
who it cannot be
that’s calling
~~~
Selma Martin is a retired English teacher with 20 years of teaching children ESL. She has been published on Medium, Short Fiction Break, The Poetorium At Starlight, MasticadoresUSA, and Spillwords. In July 2023, she published her debut poetry collection, In The Shadow of Rainbows – EIF Publisher. Selma lives in Japan. This is Selma’s first feature with The Short of It.
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