Sometimes writing is like slipping
off your clothes
in the waning light of day
effortless
exhalation on a sigh
but most often it is retching
in solitude
a heaving up of your insides
results that are never pretty
generally painful
but necessary
relief
momentary
until all that bubbles up
furiously
is expelled
finding purchase
upon the page
:
Copyright © SirenSong1208
All rights reserved
Photograph taken by SirenSong1208
I want to know
the thoughts that linger in his mind
when night closes in.
Do they render him sleepless,
his mind a hive
of activity,
plans and conjecture,
a body fitful with want;
or is he able to pull them
about him,
like a blanket,
feeling every soft pass
against his skin,
an inaudible sigh within
pleasure pulling him deep into dreams.
I want to know
the thoughts that linger in his mind
when night closes in,
I want to know
if they are of me.
:
Copyright © SirenSong1208
All rights reserved
Photograph taken by SirenSong1208
Every step
is one upon a precipice
when you’ve no knowledge of the path
optimism
fueled with bravery
footfall, a deep breath of the unknown
never knowing
where it will land
solid ground
or air
blind choice
another day to become
more
better or
swift freefall
courage comes with confidence
in myself
:
Copyright ©SirenSong1208
All rights reserved.
Photograph taken from Recovery Resources, Australia via Google Images
It starts slow —
tentative touch
blooming
with color across your skin.
Like a meadow in summer,
thoughts that meander
gradually becoming
a steady hum
as he takes up residence.
A delicious
jolt
whenever you happen upon him
coursing through your veins,
pulsing beneath your skin.
Not simply desire
or respect
nor even tender regard,
but an
awakening
to him
and to yourself.
With every breath.
:
Copyright ©SirenSong1208
All rights reserved.
Photograph taken by SirenSong1208
The older I get,
the more I realize
how like the sea I am.
That liquid expanse of horizon –
always blue to me,
melancholic with longing,
a churning, churlish mass of feeling;
everything happening beneath the surface,
much like my own insides.
A soul at turns calm or chaotic,
but as quickly as it is stirred,
it bellows forth, a tempest of emotion
releasing and gentling itself.
Changeable tides,
ebbing and flowing as response,
some inner metronome
keeping a steady beat
like my heart.
:
Copyright © SirenSong1208
All rights reserved
Photograph taken from White Noten, unsourced
Photographs tell stories, at least to me they do. They have always been the way I’ve captured memories to revisit at a later time, to share with those who’ve been absent. They have told the stories of what I have loved and who I have loved.
I’ve been photographing everything around me from a young age. When I had children, this increased exponentially, suddenly the camera was always in use as I captured every moment, every first.
But what do you do when you must put those photographs away, pretend like they don’t exist? How do you bury reminders of a past, of memories that are still ripe and sweet, years later? How do you do this when keeping them out are constant reminders to someone of a past they want to forget? Of a person they no longer are, outwardly? How do you expunge those years, and should you?
Some things can’t be forgotten.
I wrestle with this. On the one hand I want to be sensitive, these photographs remind them of who they no longer are, but on the other hand these same photographs remind me of a happier time, when the future was bright and hopeful. They are not only a tangible reminder of the past but they are a part of me. I am the photographer. I am the mother. In this case, I am the creator of both art and life.
I’ve tried my best as a mother: to provide understanding and support, to teach them the skills necessary to navigate life, and to be more resilient, but above all I have tried to show them how loved they are. Unconditionally.
Sometimes this falls short, no matter my motivation, no matter my actions.
As a parent you put your child’s needs ahead of your own, but sometimes your needs and theirs are at war. As it is for me now. I have robust memories, with many of them being photographic, and now I must put those away and with them a part of myself. At times it feels like one more piece of me is being buried and I cannot breathe. I am banging my fists against the lid but no one hears my cries.
The photographs are the latest in a line of things that I have had to turn my back on. I am not prone to pity parties but I grieve, oh do I grieve.
Some might think this is selfish, to feel this way about photographs, but it is really about more than captured images. It’s about forgetting 15 years of a life. It’s about surreptitiously reliving them. It is what I struggle with. It’s not that I am not thankful for what I have, but it is a loss and as such it behaves like the tides, ebbing and flowing, but never ceasing.
The changes wrought are incalculable. I grieve for the past and for the future. There will be things I will never experience and things I experience but in a way that is more challenging and isolating than I ever anticipated. This truly is a matter of only understanding if you walk in my shoes.
But these are small things and, in some cases, future things.
We adjust as we go along. Tentative steps taken, often with a heart that aches with loss but also one that feels a modicum of joy as things align. It is the past that is rearing its ugly head. As we go forward into this new life I am no longer allowed to revel in those memories. I must be secretive about the happiness I felt because it makes someone I love uncomfortable.
It’s the latest of cuts, and probably the deepest, and I feel as though I am bleeding out. How much can I lose and do I have the right to feel this grief when it’s not my life that will be challenging?
I don’t know the answer to that. I’m just searching for something to staunch the flow of blood.
:
Copyright ©SirenSong1208
All rights reserved.
Photograph taken from Tumblr, source unknown
She has
curves he loves
to grip;
holding her
close to his chest,
resting
in his lap.
He caresses her,
his fingers
knowing
which strings to
pluck
strum
tease;
to make the most beautiful music.
He makes her sing sweetly.
Sometimes
she is accarezzévole,
whispering tenderly;
other times
she is played con affetto,
roaring with passion
abandon
giving her all.
But whichever way she sings
to him,
her voice,
her song
is just for
him.
:
Copyright ©SirenSong1208
All rights reserved
Art taken from verycoolphotoblog.com
