Dad's Evergreen Home

It was the place I called home,

sort of.

Dad’s home

for nearly four decades.

 

After the divorce

I stayed there,

with him

Wednesdays and

every other weekend,

the typical dad schedule.

From the rock hard twin beds

to the displays of

circus wagons and magic tricks,

nothing changed;

Dad and his home were constants

in a life riddled with inconsistency.

 

Reaching adulthood,

I would visit

more often at first,

less so when

I was busy with my own family.

Never changing,

Dad’s home stayed the same

except for the time

he developed a crush

on an interior decorator

She painted

his beige walls forest green.

 

For twenty years,

those forest green walls

remained.

Dated,

but as constant

as the forests they mimicked.

 

Dad died a year ago

and words like probate and estate,

found their way into my vocabulary.

Those words clogged my throat

and I just wanted to go home

to the constant ever-green of Dad’s living room

so I could breath again.

 

The forest is gone now,

painted over

in a more marketable color,

or so I am told.

The forest has turned light grey,

the color of skies before a storm,

but the walls

enclosing my Dad’s home

were still accessible,

for a time.

 

At the closing table,

they disappeared too.

Those walls, like my Dad,

were impenetrable,

dated, but

always there.

Always.

Until they weren’t.

 

~ Mk Michaels

Regression

The woman I met

and brought into my heart
and home
was
smart, crazy smart
attractive, sensual
kind, generous
adventurous, a seasoned traveler
and steady.

Having survived a relationship
typified by ugly attacks,
deep insecurity, and
the assaults that went with it,
I needed and sought out
the perceived calm of her.

The connection was immediate,
intense and deep.
I saw a future
spanning decades,
until death,
a life in which we each
would love support one another,
activists in our own right,
the whole being greater than the sum.

…but all was not what it seemed.
I know that now.

She was a daughter,
so starved by her mother for affection,
she ate whatever was offered
even when it was toxic.
A constant diet of shame
about virtually everything
from what I could gather;
her body,
her skin,
her teeth,
her sex,
herself.
Thus an adult grew,
paralyzed by her own fears
and need for approval.
Still starving.

Although our start was strong,
the connection deep,

and the attention plentiful
based on the mere whiff of the perceived threat
that she would starve yet again,
she regressed.
She turned into a child
before my eyes;
her demeanor,
her needs,
her voice,
her mannerisms,
her tantrums,
her.

Childish manipulations
to get what she needed
commenced
and, I
rooted in my own need to have her stay,

flexed,

dialogued,
comforted,
reassured,
and showed up
until the day I couldn’t
anymore.

She turned into a child
virtually overnight
and, I realize in hindsight,

my lover
became a daughter of sorts,

she looking to me

to satisfy her,
complete her,
be the spark of life
that allowed her to thrive.

I am a great mother
to my daughter, my son,
and while I am certain this is part of
what drew her to me,
I cannot baby a lover
….and still be able to fuck her.

~ Mk Michaels

Back Peddling

"I considered an
affair", she said, but quickly
told me I'd misheard.

~ Mk Michaels

On the Pulse of This Morning: January 20, 2017

 

Photo Credit: Chad Foreman

 

Today, on the pulse of this morning,

I recall Her words;

so relevant,

so essential,

so fresh

although

they were first spoken

more than two decades ago.

 

Today, on the pulse of this morning,

the world changes

yet again

and we stand shell-shocked

watching the hateful tide lap

ever nearer,

kissing our unwilling toes.

 

Today, on the pulse of this morning,

we dance;

two steps forward, one back,

but progress

ever making progress

even in the face of

the seemingly impossible.

 

Today, on the pulse of this morning,

we set our sights on the future.

Tomorrow,

we march,

resisting the loss

of our humanity,

we will emerge

smarter, stronger,

more strategic.

 

Today, on the pulse of this morning,

we are the Tree planted by the River,

which will not be moved.

United in the chasm

of our divide,

through weary, wide eyes

we look to our sisters,

our brothers

alongside us,

drawing from our country

deep-rooted within us,

And say with the courage of our convictions

Good morning.

 

~ Mk Michaels

 

* The phrase ‘the Tree planted by the River, which will not be moved’ is included with appreciation and great respect for Dr. Maya Angelou for her inaugural poem On the Pulse of Morning, January 20, 1993.

Committed

Horcrux Lost

 

Horcrux (n)

Pronunciation: hor-kruhks

Definition:  a part of a soul that has been split from the primary soul allowing several opportunities for the person to live if a horcrux is removed or destroyed.

 

I believe in the power of

connection,

energy,

Karma

and, as such,

a possession,

particularly one of significance,

created specifically,

thoughtfully, and

lovingly

can absorb a part of one’s soul. 

We see this all the time.

For good or bad,

a house absorbs the energy of the family who lives there.

The energy can be felt if one is attuned.

A sweater, pillow, or blanket

becomes more than a mere inanimate object

and can provide comfort above and beyond that of mere fabric.

For better or worse,

the symbolism of a ring, properly honored,

takes on a piece of the wearer’s soul.

 

All of this is well and good,

to the extent the energy around them stays well and good,

but houses burn down, destroying the once beloved homes,

over time sweaters, pillows, and blankets wear out and lose their luster

becoming ragged until they dwindle to nothing,

rings, once given, are repossessed

and a piece of the one who held the home, the blanket, or the ring in her heart

is forever lost.
 

It makes one question the wisdom

in allowing oneself to become too attached.
 

~ Mk Michaels

Broken Glass

Once given,
a tender gesture,
humble, heartfelt words;
brilliant beauty
of dazzling hearts, Cupid's arrows
and
promises of love forever,
stability, security, safety.
Among of the happiest days of my life.

A symbol created,
to represent the best of intentions,
I didn't know all that would follow,
what would be expected of and 
then stripped away from me.

Empty promises 
born of your desperation
with neither a plan
nor the ability to be kept.
Your panicked shrieks
rooted in a complete lack of faith,
in spite of half-full glasses on every surface,
terrible-two's tantrums
at middle age.
My humiliation,
powerlessness,
bone-crunching exhaustion 
in trying to head off the next
outburst
and the next
and the next.

Circles deeply underscoring 
bloodshot blue eyes,
I admitted defeat.
Failure.
My inability to fill 
the bottomless pit 
of your need.

Cupid's once delicate platinum arrows
and elegantly engraved laurel
now turned to steel,
with sharp points
tinged with the metallic smell
of your faithlessness and
my heart's blood 
dripping
from the jagged edges 
ultimately proven
to be merely glass. 


~ Mk Michaels

First Blood; Last Blood

First blood,
you drew it. 
Boiling our relationship down 
to a business transaction reduction,
like balsamic vinegar,
the fumes a cloud of acid;
I want it back
You owe me
Take that <smack>
all for drawing a line
when your meltdowns 
became too much
to bear.

When that first drop
of my blood hit the floor,
you lost any privileges
once generously bestowed;
My love
Time and energy I did not have,
but gave anyway
The marrow from my bones,
offered to feed and bolster 
the insecurities that 
echoed from an under-mothered childhood,
leaving me a puddle of flesh
on the floor because my bones
could no longer support me.

So it is business as unusual 
at the end of us.
You chose this mode.
So buck up like
the adult you should be
and not the tantruming child
I naively brought into
my heart and home.
Buck up
and end the bloodshed.

~ Mk Michaels

Stop

I see you.

There.
Sneaking peeks where you oughtn’t.
Where you said you wouldn’t.
Where you said you weren’t.

Stop it.

~ Mk Michaels