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A square, white, four bedroom, one bath country home
With fourteen kids, parents and much family love
We didn’t have abundance:  fiscally poor
But we had each other:  banked on our family
We shared our victories and or trying pain
We were a modest Scottish Catholic Clan

Isolated, we were not to our immediate clan
Our uncle’s lived within a trot, fifteen in his home
We kids worked and played on the farm without pain
It was an adventurous labor of extended family love
We worked, laughed, cried, and played as a family
In the early years, we young ones were anything but poor

However, in grammar school, we learned the meaning of poor
And materialism and envy, outside our cloistered clan
But together we lived and loved as a close nit family
Sure we had disagreements, not material goods, but a solid home
White paint peeled on the outside, yet inside was painted love
Still, there were poverty jokes, ridicule and masked pain

Every family has strife, baggage, and superfluous pain
Our parents didn’t drink; we had faith, yet fiscally poor
Ole Dad plumbed toilets; Mom slaved in the house, both with love
So we wouldn’t trade riches for our impoverished meager clan
Summer berries to pick, winter sledding, spring kites, and forever home
Kickball games, splashing  in ponds, nature hikes and family

We were not taught to show emotions, hug, not an “I love you family,”
Albeit, an honest, polite, and proud Scottish Clan
The old house was eternally warm; it was our forever home
Until 1999. Dad passed from cancer still money poor
Yet rich in the knowledge of family and that his true pain
Was never saying that word; on his deathbed he whispered “Love”

Though our patriarch was laid to rest, we rose with the word “Love”
Eventually, the house was sold, but always one huge family
Mom spends her days in a retirement home remembering her clan
As time passes and memories fades, it lessens the pain
Of the loss of a noble father, economically poor
Yet with a strong work ethic, church, and love, built a home

Fourteen children now forged fourteen homes on love
Many, still, financially poor, but rich in forever family
Correcting mistakes that caused pain, while perpetuating our clan
Thank you soooo much if you read this Sestina. It is a time-consuming form. I was definitely challenged. This is autobiographical yet set even further in the past. I used old references and a simple language to capture that old country feeling, like the Waltons, for those of you old enough to remember that show.
Thanks again for reading this long Sestina. I hope you enjoyed it. It may be my last.
I had to do it again.

I had to willingly
walk into the face of danger
and get rid of another stray
you let in.

My hand still hurts.

You are the most beautiful person I have ever known.

I have seen you beaten
and bruised by men
you have loved.
I have watched you struggle
for years with your own demons
of addiction, depression, poor choices
and lost loves.
I have seen your face
cry
far too many times.

Through the years
we have waxed and waned,
driven each other mad
with rage
and consoled each other
on our darkest days.
We have laughed,
cried,
screamed,
loved
and hated ourselves,
together and separate.  
I have left your side,
sometimes with thoughts of never returning,
of leaving behind all the pain
of our lives together and seeking my own pain,
only to return to you always.

We  got high together,
got clean together,
and have been everywhere in between.  
There were times
when you have been

so spun out

that you were unrecognizable
as a human
except
for your shape.
Other times you have been
the sole beacon of lucidity
in the dark chasm
of my
great
nothing.

Throughout all the beatings
we have suffered at the hands of others,
all the times some stray you let in robbed us,
all the dope deals gone bad,
the missed holidays,
the broken promises,
lies,
the good intentions gone bad,
through all of that your unshakable faith in
God
has always been a source of your inspiration to go on,
to move forward,
to keep smiling and more importantly,
to keep loving others.
Your willingness to help those
who are in need,
those
that have have hurt you,
and even
those
that you know are going to
hurt you,
has been both a source of
consternation and frustration
along with teaching me
how to love others,
how to have compassion.

You are the most beautiful person I have ever known.
I love you, Mother.
My gorilla wears tennis shoes
He reads the paper and sings the blues
My gorilla, my gorilla
My gorilla, he's a sensitive guy
I took him out for a wedding, and man did he cry!
Tears all down his tie
Well, he can drive most greens from the back tees
But his putting brings him to his knees
My gorilla, my gorilla

My gorilla loves pork and beans
He rides a scooter in his cut-off jeans
My gorilla, my gorilla
He can make a mean souffle
He's great with omelets, but his specialty is flambe
So I eat one every day!
He's been working ******* a half pike
But his cannonball empties the pool
My gorilla, my gorilla

My gorilla is so much fun
He buys taquitos for everyone
My gorilla, my gorilla
My gorilla loves tequila with lime
He's taking classes at a school for mime
Cracks me up every time!
Well, he's looking cool in his "white face"
And his French beret looks oh so fine
My gorilla, my gorilla
Oh yeah...
I have a million things to say.

Yet I keep silent.

I pepper my conversations with pregnant pauses --
Uncomfortable breaks which throw the whole thing off kilter
and send the other party slinking away.

Much later I practice what I might have said --
Something remarkable or brazen, hilarious or incredibly insightful.  
But it's much too late.  
Like a show horse balking at a gate, I arrived at the moment of truth

and chickened out.  

I could have made the jump, I just lacked the necessary courage.  

I marvel at people who are so
comfortable in their own skins that they can
talk with ease and aplum in any situation.
  
I envy them.  

Truth be told, I hate them.  

Don't they know I have something great to say?  
I'm just a little slow on the draw...
Okay, a lot slow...
But I do have a million things to say.
I called you a narcissist.  
Maybe because I've been told all my life not to flaunt what you've got.  
But I'm the true narcissist.  
I just hide my self-absorption under a cloak of false humility.
One of these days I just might bust open
Spewing hot lava, burning the ground
So if I were you on that day, well, I'd keep my distance
It could get messy for everyone around

One of these days I just might split wide open
Venom will pour down like acid rain
So if I were you on that day, well, I'd seek some shelter
It could get messy when I finally feel my pain

It might **** me, it might set me free
Life is full of mysteries, have to wait and see
It might **** me... hell, I'm already dead
Flat lines through my heart, through my head

One of these days I just might split wide open
Venom will pour down like acid rain
So if I were you on that day, well, I'd seek some shelter
It could get messy when I finally feel my pain
One of these days...
One of these days...
One of these days
When it's completely,
lost and gone,
I write it back.
They asked me,
what is love?
And I said,
Love is that fine line
between heaven and hell
This wreckage in my chest is no longer a heart

— The End —