Sore Wings Soar

If you know anything about mental illness, you know that children with parents suffering from mental disorders tend to be secondary sufferers. Parents who go undiagnosed often are not aware that their perceptions are distorted by a chemical imbalance, a chronic misfiring of the brain. Children do not thrive or feel secure in an environment where one day they are gushingly called geniuses and the next they are told they are the idiots of the year. I’ve witnessed situations like this. As an onlooker, I’ve found it heartwrenching, noticing what’s going on without any ability to help. These are the thoughts that inspired me to write,

Sore Wings Soar (a.k.a. The Bird Woman)

She holds up a crumb
Between finger and thumb,
And, sweetly, she whistles my name.
It’s a mean little drop,
And my hunger won’t stop,
But I long for it just the same.

I live in this cage,
‘Twixt her hurt and her rage,
My wings, pinned fast and tight.
Like the hands on the clock,
She prevents the whole flock;
I can’t please her, try as I might.

So, the sun stands still
To her dark, lonely will
‘Til I lose my reason to fly.
But one day she’ll forget,
And that latch will be let.
I’ll soar on sore wings to the sky.

Feature Image by X posid

The Spider – a lament

Image by George Hodan

Worthy was I of purest love;

He loved me not at all.

His schemes wove tethers ‘round my wrists;

He watched my fences fall.


Drop by drop, he plied his pen

In lies yet unrevealed;

A spider weaving glit’ring web,

His stings were yet concealed.


In desperate straits, but steadfast still,

I could not but perceive;

My virtue lured him like a fly;

His web I could not leave.


To friends he painted fallacies,

Sincerity his guise;

‘Til silence, my worst enemy,

Convinced my soul to rise.


In vain I begged for mercy;

His coldness was as ice.

He had no conscience to restrain;

He made my love his vice.


The spider took the coward’s path,

He heeded not my cry.

He drained me of my last defense,

And forced my hope to die.


The door, it loomed like Cerberus;

I slipped away by night;

I climbed the steep Mount Tartarus,

And did not slow my flight.


My tired soul found haven:

A cell, a squalid shore,

Where I battled in reflection,

My fevered mind tried sore.


I searched; I found no comfort.

I slept; I found no rest.

I ate and took no pleasure in it.

My spirit sore oppressed.


I reached to enfold my loved ones,

A solace amidst my pain;

I grasped at salve for my malady,

To stand and live again.


But there was none would help me;

Both judge and friend drew near;

They praised the sinner, claimed him saint,

Denying I’d aught to fear.


They said if I would go to him…

They told me to forgive.

“This lord, this man of good rapport,

Commit to him and live.”


My spider had betrayed me

To mother, sister, friend.

Denied even by the bishop,

Who claimed hell was my end.


Hear the words, oh humanity;

Spoken from the Divine:

For God hears the cry of the innocent;

The Lord says, “Vengeance is Mine.”


*Inspired by Samuel Richard’s Clarissa Harlowe, or the Story of a Young Lady

The White Rabbit

I wist not where my foot had dropped;

But at the door of a world I stopped.

With little act and little thought,

I saw him in his waistcoat frocked.

He said to me, “No time!”


I grew a deal, but I was small;

I drank from life a little of all;

I rose and tottered from a crawl;

And listened ’bout me for his call,

The ringing words, “No time!”


I marched, I circled with the rest;

I sang the chants and took the test;

And all for naught it was at best–

The race was never done, I guessed.

He worried on. “No time!”


I searched through leaf and vale and plain;

I searched his house, calling his name.

Was I his slave, his pride, his shame;

His Mary Ann, as he did claim?

He twitched and cried, “No time!”


By him I walked among the great,

Touched the hem and entered the gate,

Found it false, but spoke too late;

“Silence her!” and “Off with her pate!”

He saw I had no time.


My world, scatt’ring threes and twos,

I cared not who would win or lose;

For games and such I had no use.

Yet, I was his and he was whose,

The one who had no time?


When I awoke beside my tree,

So real and safe that stood by me,

I cast aside the memory

That he had not had time for me.

He’s running with no time.


I’m celebrating love and lovers on Thursdays in February. So, let your heart go pitter-patter. Schoolgirl giggling is acceptable.

I thought I’d give you a little piece I wrote in high school about the one-sided love of a young girl—because, you know, sometimes things get a little mixed up when you’re dreaming about finding that someone special. Crushes often mean you act sappy and ridiculous. Unfortunately, that can mean you embarrass yourself acting sappy and ridiculous.

The poem received honorable mention when I submitted it my freshman year in college. It’s entitled,


“Oh, I know he loves me, mother;
For he cannot disguise.”
“What makes you think so, daughter dear?”
“I saw it in his eyes.”

A heart being used as a symbol of love. Photo ...
A heart being used as a symbol of love. Photo modified by author using Photoshop. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“What there was so perceptible?”
“Oh, mother! Can’t you see?
I know he’s looked at no one else
The way he looked at me.”

“And what makes you so certain, dear?”
“He also gave a wink.”
“But how does that make you so sure?”
“It’s more than what you think!”

“I can remember every look
And gesture made today.
When I walked in the noisy room,
I overheard him say:

‘Hey, George, now there is a treasure.’
I know he spoke of me.”
“Perhaps you are mistaken, dear.”
“No, Mother, that can’t be!”

Now maybe we, objectively,
Should look back on the scene
And take the young man’s perspective
To see what he did mean.

Truth being that the love-struck girl,
Not close enough to see,
That secret she saw in his eyes
Was but a fallacy.

Of the wink I am not doubtful.
I can give no defense;
For he had trouble earlier
With his old contact lens.

Bill Tuttle signature baseball glove, ca. 1964
Bill Tuttle signature baseball glove, ca. 1964 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

And lastly, what was that ‘treasure’
He spoke so fondly of?
‘Twas but a famous signature
On his friend’s baseball glove.

Though in her young and shining eyes,
True love made its decree;
It matters not her heart was sure,
Mistaken still was she.