Tag: compassion

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Fundraiser

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Fundraiser They all shared the same memory, all those moms and dads dressed up in black, shirts ironed, wined glasses drained, purple teeth exposed in opposition to the tragedy lacing their hearts. She told me she couldn’t look at any more pictures, the blue tinged lips, more tubes than days old, the hands they’d never hold again, ghosts smiling slide after slide on the screen in the corner of the room, the babies that inspired the sad moms and dads to tie their ties and sip wine, signing checks, praying for miracles for the sake of someone else’s child.

Dedicated to my sister Becky, whom I never met.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Stance

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Stance It’s the stance of someone beaten. I don’t need to know the origin of your bruises or why you hunch your shoulders to deflect eye contact. I hear it in your silence and see it in your hiding, buried beneath pretend apathy, the lies of a fight too fresh to pass the lump in both our throats. I’m not asking you to speak, but beg you to believe we can look west together, comrades of pasts not yet set. We’ve got time to face each other when the sun bleaches the marks on your heart. Writing has been a struggle lately. I spent at least a week and a half incapable of finishing a single poem. I’d start them, sometimes even reaching the second to last line, and then shut my notebook. But this one just happened. I didn’t fight for it or resent it halfway through. It was organic and soothing and I think I know why. I’ve been focusing on me lately, focusing on what I’m feeling and holding on to negativity like a magnet. This poem was a break from that. It’s about someone else and I’m super relieved that something inside me compelled me to reach outside my own brain for inspiration.

Have a great week!

–Leanne Rebecca

 

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Are You Ready?

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Are You Ready? She asked the question in the earnestness of choice, offering me an out despite the unspoken plea traced in the words hiding behind the weight of decision, my decision to box up my heart --my needs, my fears, my selfishness— and store it on a shelf, collecting dust and waiting. She explained: you can’t expect anything back, must act without being asked, that’s what it takes, effort, your effort. I nodded, a yes flying from my lips in auto response like an out-of-office email, true and direct, but impersonal, shallow. She glared into my irises like a lie detector assessing genuine intention. But she didn’t say anything. Did she not see the waver in my thought which screamed in every blink breaking our locked eye contact? She didn’t say anything, reiterating her faith in me, her compassion to see beyond my flaws, the reason why my mother is the most selfless person I know. I reach down my throat and pluck out my feelings. This isn’t about me, I think, but if there’s one reward to this choice it’s becoming more like my mother, my selfish caveat tainting her altruistic purity.

This one’s a bit different. But I wouldn’t be a poet if I didn’t play, right? Thanks for stopping by and as always, have a happy Wednesday!

–Leanne Rebecca