Imbibe

deep persuasion

words drunk like wine

intoxicating my soul

hastening my fall

as I imbibe

every

breathless

word

:

Copyright ©SirenSong1208

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Photograph taken by SirenSong1208

Vintage girl

Vintage girl

found within sepia stained pages.

Bound to a life

she was never meant to live.

Dutiful exploits

catalogued inside,

pages

curled over time,

color

seeping from the edges.

she pushes at boundaries.

Her mind,

her soul,

ready to be more than one shade

of alive.

:

Copyright ©SirenSong1208

All rights reserved.

Photograph taken by SirenSong1208

 

 

Every smile

I sat upon the sand

watching as he played amid the waves,

catching each swell as I’d taught him.

With every rise and fall,

and every smile and laugh,

I could see the past years

and the pain and stress he endured

melt away

and for those few carefree moments

he was a kid again,

one who had no worries in front of him

except for whether he might swallow too much

of the sea…

:

Copyright ©SirenSong1208

All rights reserved.

Photograph taken by SirenSong1208

Immolation

What is the cost of feelings such as these…

immolating myself in a fire

started by another,

allowing myself to feel the heat

and crackle

of every flame

as I place myself upon this pyre.

A modern day Joan of Arc

with a purity in burning,

for to sequester myself

would be to deny what

and who

I am.

:

Copyright ©SirenSong1208

All rights reserved.

Artwork by Brian Oldham

Photographs

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

I want to know

I want to know

the scent of Summer upon your skin.

Sunlight warming it

as we bask in a golden day,

our senses

inundated

with the briny, tangy smell and taste

of the sea.

Your smile

a mirror of my contentment.

.

I want to know

the taste of Autumn upon your tongue.

Cinnamon and clove

as richly spiced and dark

as our moments together.

Shorter days and longer nights.

Crisp leaves and vivid hues.

Golden light bringing beauty

to a fading landscape,

one last dance before winter’s sleep.

.

I want to know

the touch of Winter when your hand is in mine.

The warmth and strength held within a grasp

as we amble

through the quiet and cold monotone landscape 

that we’ve known,

understanding beginning

with open hearts and open minds,

preparing for a metamorphosis

and days

filled with colour and light.

.

I want to know

what Spring looks like with you,

as blooming commences

and possibilities abound.

Seeds planted take root

and stems grow

entwined

strong and resilient.

:

Copyright ©SirenSong1208

All rights reserved.

Photograph taken from Pinterest, source unknown

Museum of my heart

The museum of my heart is full of rooms

that describe me

but do not define me.

Walls painted with joy and pain.

Hung with the memories

of family and friends and lovers.

Floors set with mistakes and successes

Ceilings lit with laughter and love.

This museum of my heart is not a place of glass cases,

where you look but do not touch.

It is a place of discovery,

where every corner is interactive

and rooms are added

continuously.

A growing archive

to how deeply I live

and to how profoundly I love.

:

Copyright ©SirenSong1208

All rights reserved.

Photograph taken from Tumblr, unsourced