Martyr: A Dailypost Writing Prompt

Better had you called her Mother,
For mother she was before you stole
Her every waking moment with your needs.
She never minded the change that goes with:

I need water, cookies, a story.
I need soothing, aspirin, a cold pack.
I have a broken dolly, truck, fix it, 
Someone hurt me, pushed me, my knee...

My broken heart, my bank balance.
My lost friend, my best friend gone,
I'm alone. You were never alone, not you.
She hovered over you even when you refused to see.

Still she held you and gave you worth, forgiveness.
Counsel given you, and some of hers from a lengthy speech
You remember. You lust for more, but lack the patience
Of saints from world's dust covered and ash filled.

Mother finds a way, always she finds a way.
My friends have, my sister has, my brother took.
Return it, all of it to her, give her the life
That she thought she would have, but you changed.

She gave her all away, every drop: tears, smiles, cries.
Still she sets the table, waiting for a call, a note.
Cooks for your empty spot, carefully decorated table,
Leaves a napkin to blot your lips or brow, a post card.

Folded on the table, she keeps her dreams for you,
The funds she gathered in pennies, for ice cream, notebooks...
She gave you her dreamscapes to bear with you,
Lush beautiful realms of the mind. Freedom.

In place of your sorrow, a breeze for gladness.
She healed you, scolded you, taught you,
Worked to learn the math both new and old,
So you could explain the new world to her. 

Mother, better had you called her Mother, 
Before she was labeled Martyr, as willingly
You took away her smiles of you, to leave her
Eyes in tears and heart in two.


Challenge: Song

When we bought our house, new and shiny, with places that had nothing to fill them, I bought an album called Childhood Remembered. The songs were truly inspirational, sung not by human throats but by instruments, some electric and some orchestral, some a blend of it all. It was the Cello’s Song that rang through the house, echoing in time. I played it after school, before breakfast, in the middle of the night. I played it to write poetry, to get my daughter to write. I took the album to school.

My students would listen to it after being outside at lunch time. Their heads would be on their desks, and at the end of the song, the heads would come up and they would write. Oh, it inspired such fiction about fantastical voyages, heroes, villains, and the resolution of time.

It was magical, the way a tune would blossom under the treatment it was given. The theme was majestic, but asked questions. On its own, it would have haunted me. But then given a delicate background of electric piano and pulsating flute, clarinet, electric voicing. Filling slowly, adding more harmony, more of the rich voices of strings. Increasing the volume until the song overwhelmed and the listener had to just sit listening, nothing else was possible. The sound of horns arrives, notifying the listener that life is a beating moving process. Then moving back into obscurity. Cello argues soothingly. It’s best to just listen to it. Close your eyes and open your imagination. A song is a wave, needing nothing but its allure and one must listen well, for the wave may soon vanish in the distance taking our dreams with. remembered