Thoughts scatter… like dry leaves in an Autumn wind…

Thoughts scatter
… like dry leaves in an Autumn wind…

… 60’s child growing up in outer-suburbia- shadows
when children owned the streets and roamed in safety
– after-school-care was a an adventure in the nearby swamp
or vacant lot… trees our look out towers
no thoughts to falling or scraping knobby childlike knees…
innocence was so innocent back then…
and tasted of stolen passionfruit
and honeysuckle blossoms… and one cent lollies…
sepia comics and homemade kites that tangled
in trees we never thought too tall to climb…

Mamas & Papas spilled from open windows
This is Ded-i-cated to the One I Love
and the Rascals
People Got To Be Free…
Curtis Mayfield
People Get Ready there’s a Train Comin’

…we watched Pollyanna & Mary Poppins
and  Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
and sang all the songs with innocence…
…the harsh details of the war
in Vietnam were softened
by my mother… who shooed me into my room
when the news was on…

…70’s child growing up “on the road”
temporary backyards in towns that differed with the seasons…
faces never stayed the same and even though the scenery changed
she felt  at home in every valley and mountain range…
as summers merged into summers and winters mirrored winters
She grew with the trees and flowing rivers…
isolation became the norm…  and vague the memories
of being suburban-born…
books replaced the TV… and songs are just poetry with music
sun-watching and moon-gazing filled the silent spaces
when poetic thoughts were scratched in the back of her home school English book…

… too soon it seemed her nut-brown body had desires to grow
she blossomed in soft rounded curves…  and let her hair flow
nubile changes… and a deeper turn of mind
and she left the pure innocence of childhood behind…

SharonleeGoodhandImageweaver ©

Ante-Post-Meridiam Twilight

Tumbling untainted joy
skinned knees
and trees
so high I could pretend I didn’t hear mother’s voice-

Tree-climbing is only for boys!
how often she screeched that, I could not count;

Ahh… the purity of those sweet scented days
that wafted by on the scents of childhood-
swamp-water-up-to-my-knees scents
fish-and-chips-wrapped in newspaper scents
pungent with vinegar and tingling saltiness
living in the dreamtime of innocence…

No halting the winds of change though
skinned knees heal and children grow
time ebbs and flows, as season blows into passing season…

Clinging to shreds of childhood dreams
yet eager to venture beyond the grip
of parental embrace, perhaps too soon it was
or mayhap too late, I took the road to independence-

And lost myself
in those early postmeridian days
lost in late nights, catty fights
waking…. where I shouldn’t be waking
taking what I shouldn’t be taking-
– but that was a passing faze, a mere scene embedded
into life’s diorama
– my inner child shook me silly, beat me up, willy-nilly
I didn’t sign on for this!
How wise she was, my inner child;
I think she saved my life.

Trading bar-room- emetic for the sweetness of motherhood
and those healing places where ancient trees grow-
I taught my children how to climb
limb by limb, how recognize the perfect branch
for sitting on
how to share with the breeze their secret soul-song…

… but, and it seems there is always a ‘but’ with me
one that pulls me up as time ebbs and flows
as season blows into passing season
– but…. life presents obstacles of no rhyme and reason
and for a while I lost myself, in soul-consuming sorrow
          only shadows haunted each tomorrow
dreams merely empty reflections of yesterday…

I lived and loved and lost, in the postmeridian of my days
forgot how to smile, while time stood still in silent eyes
I guided children as they grew, but no longer knew
who I was…

Time doesn’t stand still though
does it
and I woke to discover I was aging
an old crone looked at me from the neglected mirror-
– she looked a lot like my mother, in many ways…
… the crone tsk tsk’d shaking her graying head
and then she winked
and whispered… don’t you think
it’s time… time honor your self?

Twilit days flow with twitterlight
  and as I watch grandchildren grow
I grow too, reconnecting with that me
I was long ago.

*
Poetry and Image Sharonlee Goodhand Imageweaver ©