Poem-a-Day November 2018 Writer’s Digest Challenge #17. Theme: Broken

Night of Broken Glass

She was broke
but not broken;
he was fractured
but not shattered.
They did not push the boundaries
but were pushed from the boundaries
of their home
that
was
not
their home.

Storage unit:
Hand-me-down crib
that didn’t match
the hand-me-down furniture
it had come with;
the antique hutch
that had been passed down
from her Welsh grandmother
and the fruit salad loveseat
that had
survived sixty years
in her grandparents’ care,
but not even three
with stair-stepping
Anna Banana;
the his and hers reclining chairs
that would rot in storage—
courtesy of
the Deep South humidity,
where the hot was hotter than hot.

She’d kept the light-up ladybug
that painted the heavens
in blue, red, and green—
a light whose projections
would not appear so unfamiliar,
even on a series of strange ceilings,
for did not constellation
change position,
did not the planets seem to draw near
and vice versa?

The Precious Moments snow globe
would sound the same
in their present darkness.
Bedtime would feel the same—
down to the elephant blankie
that was slightly browned at the corners,
the lavender scent
this mom sprayed
every
pillow
with.

In her husband’s haste to move
to their next temporary home,
the glass globe—
encasing an ideal existence—
shattered like her expectations,
leaving silver glitter
like the pulverized remnants
of cloud linings,
and tiny purple butterfly wings
like conversation hearts
with nothing to say.

She found the courage to move on—
only because even though she could not stay,
she,
just as surely,
had nowhere to go.

2018 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 17

Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #318, Theme: Tired

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When the Sun Shall Shine Through the Rain

I am like a pearl,
making a dive
through a bottle of Prell.
That was my life
for months after she came,
and nothing was ever the same.

Every morning was a struggle
to get out of bed—
sapped of the stores of energy I once had;
to sleep with abandon,
without thought or care
of a little princess with golden hair.
My time is no longer my own,
but precious are the moments that glitter like silver,
for they are more precious than gold.

Her little hand clutches mine,
and my heart catches.
My cup runneth over.
I am revived in spirit,
if not in body,
for my flesh is weak.
The time is now—
now I must turn away
from the sugar that glistens like snow,
from the lethargy of being housebound at times.
I must fight for what once was easy for me.
I must find that old physicality
in this new life.
I must find that vibrancy once again;
I must take care of myself,
as I take care of her.

I stand on solid ground,
looking upwards and all around—
away from myself,
for my priorities have shifted,
like the tectonic plates I stand upon,
and my soul is uplifted.
The magnitude of my responsibility,
hits me like a wall of cement,
for “the hand that rocks the cradle,
is the hand that rules the world.”