It Always Starts the Same Way   2 comments

It Always Starts the Same Way


1. She Had This Way

I read her hands like others read faces
I saw expressions in their movements
that created a thousand narrations

She – had this way

I had seen the curl of her fingers,
saw them touching, pointing –
seen the palms of her hands,
saw them calloused and worn

She wore kitchen scars with honour
For all their years of war,
they had also made peace

She – had – this way

Veins webbed across the back of her hands
where beautiful shades of dark red coursed
Her olive skin glowed and mellowed
the effects of sun and harsh times

She had – this – way

Fingers ran softly through hair,
teasing, stroking
They traced lines of passion
on lovers bare skin

I read her hands like others read faces
They had never risen in anger,
for her, they had always spoken in love

She had this – way

She had this way


2. Her Real Life Told Her

Her mother may have told her
there would be days of bliss

Her mother may have told her
it would not be hit or miss

Her mother may have told her
all you had to do was wish

Her mother may have told her
there would be days to kiss

But her real life told her
dreams are meaningless

Her real life told her
it can be cold and thankless

Her real life told her
no one else gives a shit

Her real life told her
to be quiet and sit

(Kudos to V.Morrison)

3. By the Window Quiet

By the window quiet,
she sat

Lost within the rivers
and memories of her mind

This day, they were a torrent
On other days, she did not know

Life’s memories have a
way like that
A lost life more so

By the window quiet
she sat
her tears fed
the rapids
the rage

Her finger nails cut
deep in to the palm
of her hand
but that pain was
so much less
than his

By the window quiet
she sat
she sat
she sat
she sat
the chair rocked

She wrapped
her arms

She was all she had,
and the children

By the window quiet
she sat

4. Beautiful Truth

The hurricane of lies flowed easy in
the tippy toe creep morning after
The house cold; the power bill drunk
in a storm of beer and cheap wine
The excuse will be an old one – it
seems to work – “I walked into a door”

Should they stay or should they go,

Fear holds a long leash when violence
is the threat – maybe, maybe,
maybe the children can make new …

She slumps and cries

There is no beautiful truth

5. The Children Sat Quietly at the Kitchen Table

A clear blue sky morning – another
fucking, clear, blue sky morning
The streets would understand
A clear blue sky morning had
meant a cold fucking night

Bruises had appeared quickly this time
But it felt different, the pain was more
Eye socket tender. her vision blurred

She was fed up, just a slave to him
and his mates as they watched the footy
“Get another six pack out of the fridge bitch”

She hesitated too long, and then he went off
Grabbing her long, once beautiful hair
he dragged her into the kitchen – she screamed
The first punch hurt the most, the eye breaker
Two children sat quietly at the kitchen table

The more she cried the more he hit, the more he hit
the more she cried, it’s own never ending story
Egged on by his gutless mates he gave her
one more punch and then finished her off with a kick

“Now just fuck off, you’re way too old and ugly – and
you can forget the fucking kids, they’re mine” he screamed
as he pushed her out the door, “you can go and live on
the fucking streets for all I fucking care”

She didn’t even last a week before her bruised and
battered body was found, fresh bruises on top of old
She was not dead but this was not going to be a fairy tale
At home the children sat real quiet at the kitchen table

6. On What Day Does the Story End

The stainless steel park bench encased
her tired body like an exoskeleton, when
she slept, eight pages of a faded Murdoch
broadsheet substituted poorly for a blanket

Overhead a silver contrail slashed the cold blue sky,
on the park bench she contemplated her wrists and the
rubber gripped, (so it wouldn’t slip when wet) Jamie Oliver
carving knife that she had just stolen from Westfield.

Her mind drifts and she can smell the legs of
spring lamb she has seen him cook on TV
She wishes for one last meal before she goes
No one wants to die hungry

She read the billboard across the park – having a
gun in a domestic violence situation increases a women’s
risk of being killed by 500% – she laughed ironically,
what about the guarantee of sending them crazy as well

It was the psychological that got to her
the verbal threat that never eventuated,
the raised hand that never landed a blow,
the twirling gun that never fired a shot

Nowhere to turn and nowhere to hide
She worked three jobs while he sat home
and drank, she stuffed her mouth with
him whenever he barked

Months since the day her tears stopped falling
she disappeared into the night time never ever
land, feeling safer there than living with him
She looked at the knife – when does the story end


7. Her Frosted Winter

She had told me she would sit each day
at her desk of cluttered dreams
and place the palm of her hand
upon her frosted office window

She might not be able to see
but she could feel the reality
that existed on the other side

It was her one belief, and there,
within her dreams and nightmares
there lay a single thread of hope
that she prayed would lead her through
the unforgiving winter her life had become

Burdened by the weight of autumn leaves
and her heart failing with broken spirit
she would sit and place the palm
of her hand upon the frosted glass

It was a sun filled day the first time the
glass softened beneath her palm
Only for a fraction of time, but it
was so real it made her soul jump

She slept that night with not so heavy heart,
as deep within her body an ember glowed,
maybe, she thought, her dreams were not those
of a woman only ever told that she would fail

In time, the push of palm became easier
and the glass felt a little softer
She could feel herself reaching towards
a new reality, a new beginning
She had watched her mother and vowed
that as clichéd as the words may sound
she would never let happen to herself
what had happened to her mother

But her wish for a different life had disappeared
into the sharps bin of many a public toilet
where the caged black dog of both their lives roamed
Her body cried as the weight of her winter and
the cold hard fists of shut the fuck up reinforced
the reality of the dark path she walked,

Yet still a tiny ember of dream spirit lived within

Returning to the refuge of her dreams
she continued to place the palm of her hand
upon the frosted glass and press gently, till
the day she felt the tips of her fingers – on nothing

She drew back in fright and for a moment,
a split second, just before the soul of the
glass flowed back to be as one, she saw
the beautiful space her fingers had left behind

Each day from then she sat and placed
the palm of her hand upon this frosted glass
Each day she pushed a little further into
the warm reality that lay beyond

Leaving behind the brute, the addiction,
the bloodshot eyes and hidden bruises
it was now time to reclaim the waste of her life
and to journey into the unknown

She rang me one last time and told me
that while she could not foresee her future
that her destiny was now hers to own

She took two steps, into the frosted glass


Posted 15/08/2013 by DarKarsean in Musing, poem, poetry, Story Writing, Uncategorized

2 responses to “It Always Starts the Same Way

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  1. This is excellently written, and completely heartbreaking….

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