still Tuesday 27 May 2008   Greenfield

 

First, a few words to Moonriver, since I don't understand any of the other ways to do it.

If you have something you'd like to mention to me, you could email me at annenakis@yahoo.com, or you could leave me more comments. The poem is direct and sincere, a nice poem, and I hope the special friend you wrote it for appreciates it.

 

Twelve weeks today since the sheriff came for us. Every time I think on it, my whole body reacts, along with my soul. I have a new day to add to the list of the most horrible days of my life: the day my father died, the day my alpha dog died, and the day the sheriff came.

 

Here's an old poem from 2001.

 

What Was Solid Once                   copyright 2008 by anne nakis

 

Snow rots,

and with it,

more slowly,

the ice.

And with them,

drop by drop,

belief.

 

And one I wrote for my female dog, who is now probably the dog of the landlady who threw us out, thanks to the tender ministrations of case manager Shirley Temple, may she drop dead where she stands. But that's a chapter in the destruction story that I haven't told yet. Anyway, I don't like this poem much, but then again, NO poem would say what I want to say about her, for her. I'd need a book.

 

Number 29                                          copyright 2008 by anne nakis

 

This kidnapped soul:

 

I've put it off

a hundred times,

this tellling a little of you and me.

I want to now, again;

to close the book,

to put aside the pen.

I veer away,

and feel disloyal.

 

What are the words

for the sister of my heart?

What are the words

to tell you my remorse?

They are as undiscoverable

as you are.

 

You were so anxious,

anxious for weeks,

watching me pack,

telling me in all your

no uncertain terms:

No. I don't want this.

What are the words

for the mother

who wants with a fierce hot wanting

to calm her child's fears,

to hold her sister's hand

and make all the darkness

ennervate with light?

What are the words for the shame

when you cannot?

 

There are no words, my sister;

nothing I can find, my big girl,

to tell you how I shame inside,

and hurt inside,

and want you, want you

want you,

want you  back.

 

Update 9 June 2009: I like this poem better now than I did when I first wrote it, but it's still true that I would need a small book to say everything I have to say for and about Brainse (pronounced bransha). I still believe that the landlady who threw us out and destroyed us as a family, destroyed my life, took my two dogs, fairly quickly euthanised my epileptic dog (Mishi), and kept Brainse for herself. I believe these things because of certain behaviors I saw from her near the end of my life, and from certain oblique remarks made by Shirley Temple in those days. But I have been told nothing, and I have a great need to know what happened to each member of my family.

       May she drop dead where she stands. These words came from my anger and my pain, knowing full well she wasn't going to do it. Words don't have that kind of power. No, she is fine, Shirley Temple, as I knew she would be. So are the vicious landlady and the psycho-chick. Nothing has been taken from them, their lives have not been destroyed by any cataclysmic events or cruelty from other people. What goes around does NOT come around. Not in most cases, anyway.