An ACOA’s Confession

This old violin has lost

some of her strings

and like many an ACOA*

she’s filled to the brim

with lizards, and things

but mainly her stuffing is jello.

When I awoke in the night

and turned on the light

I prayed (to the Universe)

that today would be free

in its entirety

of fight.

 

*Adult Children of Alcoholics

A Tree Library

While continuing to try to continue organizing “my stuff”  I came across a passel of earlier poems.  I don’t know which have made their appearance in this blog and/or d’Verse, but I just felt like giving them a run-through again.  One a Day takes the —what was it?—away. Since I love my Media Library, I think I’ll add a random pix, also. (This must be what happens when you start getting old.)

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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1 Response to An ACOA’s Confession

  1. jonicaggiano says:

    I met a woman when I was young who told me in my twenties that when I got older it would be so much worse. Those feelings of betrayal, sadness, what might have been, she was certainly filled to the brim. She did tell me I had some rough road ahead and she was right. Your poem is beautiful and honest and occasionally I still have days I feel like jello inside but most of the time I consider myself a warrior and a survivor who is making her mark the best way I know-how. Keep writing and sharing, thank you. Love J

    Liked by 1 person

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