Photographs.

This is a photograph of me
When I believed in love.
See the softness in my eyes,
My gentle, wistful smile.

In these photographs I hold
The hands of those I loved.
So many faces next to mine,
Each one my “One True Love”.

Near fifty years of photographs
And none of nights alone,
The smiles belie the tears I’ve shed
When “True Love” ever died.

Near fifty years of photographs
Expose my myths and dreams.
All I have left is images
Of what I once believed.



Dedication to Mother Kevin.



Cold, so cold was the day I was born,
To a woman so fragile, tired and worn.
Shells lighting the sky and scorching the earth
Were her memories and nightmares on the day of my birth.

Cold, so cold was my childhood, my youth,
I longed for warmth and a sense of self-worth.
I longed for a bosom to soak up my tears,
I longed for strong arms to allay all my fears.

Then God sent me you, and I learned how to pray,
I learned how to listen to His voice every day.
I learned I had talents, I had strength and self-worth,
I learned that a Mother may not be one by birth.

So, Mother, I thank you for showing the way,
Your voice ever echoes through all of my days.
I’ve become who I am because you cared enough
To pick up and patch the broken child that I was.


I wrote these poems and painted these images years ago. I was going to post a poem today that related to Fredo's post yesterday and ran into these and posted them instead.

To help explain the second poem, Mother Kevin is the nun who rescued me from a childhood of abuse and neglect. My mother was a German war bride. She was so damaged by her experiences during WWII that she had nothing left to give- no warmth, no love or affection. She clung to life by a thread that was unraveling quicker than she could take it up again. I do not blame her. My children might say the same about me.

As an additional comment to Randy's post- which ties in to the second poem- the vast majority of survivors of horrific events believe in God. (More than the general population's bell curve.) They often feel as if they were 'saved' by some sort of divine intervention. If this is what people need in order to make sense of, and survive such horrific events, why deny them? Why call them misguided or foolish? We go through life the best we know how.