Siren Whispers

Siren Song


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Saturday storms

It’s raining, a drink of water after parched days. The ground was littered with odd drops,  scattered randomly, before the thunder came and the heavens opened.

The rain always stops me in my tracks. I wait. I watch. I wonder. And my heart aches with some unfathomable feeling that soaks me to my core with a haunting want.

He is the one I think of when the rain falls, shattering itself upon the pavement. A Saturday morning with nothing but the sound of rain, and thunder in the distance. It’s always him I think of  — sitting end to end on a couch, reading. Or, notebooks open upon laps, jotting down something that comes to us, dialogue or a poem. I think of laying in his arms, just listening to the rain, not saying a word. I think of the intimacy of the moment and how completely I want that. I think of how this will never come to pass.

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Copyright © SirenSong1208

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Photograph taken from Pinterest, original source unknown.


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Writing true

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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

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Copyright © SirenSong1208

All rights reserved

Photograph taken by SirenSong1208

 


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Bravery

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

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Copyright ©SirenSong1208

All rights reserved.

Photograph taken from Recovery Resources, Australia via Google Images


18 Comments

Photographs

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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.

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Copyright ©SirenSong1208

All rights reserved.

Photograph taken from Tumblr, source unknown


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She has curves

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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.

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Copyright ©SirenSong1208

All rights reserved

Art taken from verycoolphotoblog.com


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Mea culpa

Smooth

like silk

nary a ripple

his composure

on point

always a reason

to be unavailable

distant

but still

holding onto her

it’s only a game

when she is wise to you

she becomes the problem

suddenly she’s quiet

and passive aggressive

but she’s familiar with

this dance

the one that backs her

up against the wall

mea culpa

hovering

upon her lips

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Copyright ©SirenSong1208

All rights reserved.

Photograph by SirenSong1208

 


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Luminary

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Hope is a luminary 

she sets alight

frees into the night air

watching the light as it travels

following its path

believing in its brightness

finding the unexpected storm

that blows the flame out

in a single burst

casting her into darkness

leaving her to search

for that flicker

the hope that she had

a purity of faith

that would right her perspective

that would calm her soul

that would make her remember

and believe

that there is good that happens

after all

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Copyright ©SirenSong1208

All rights reserved.

Photograph taken from Pinterest, unsourced