Poems by Ness

"Darkest Hour"
It was a night like many nights,
driving and drinking the two hour ride home,
daily routine that developed while working,
regardless of money, a ritual strictly adhered to.
Milk and dinner for the kids was requested,
a twelve pack of beer and pack of hot dogs was delivered,
money was tight, but a steady diet of hot dogs,
for days on end, was not what I had in mind.
A comment of , the children come first,
milk and nutritious food is a priority,
over what either of us would like to have,
a shrug of his shoulder and yelling, “stop your bitching!”
I saw the storm was starting to brew,
his eyes were glassy from all the beer consumed,
time to leave, take the kids,
hoping soon he would just pass out.
Coming back to the house with thoughts of safety,
putting the kids to bed, secure for the night,
but the anger had grown and festered,
trying to dodge a fight, to bed I went early for the night.
Angry words passed back and forth,
he would not let me escape and demanded a presence,
he was going to teach me a lesson,
and show who was in control.
Against a wall I was backed,
looking up the steps a child of three sat,
before I could tell the child to go back to bed,
I looked into a madman’s eyes and fear was struck.
A glanced upstairs again to my son,
as though stuck in a time warp,
in slow motion the fist came to the right,
a quick look up again to the child on the stairs.
As the clashing of teeth against flesh,
and bones beginning to break,
I remember saying before all was dark,
“Oh God, help me, Oh God protect my babies!”
All went dark after that first strike,
I can’t remember but evidence was there,
that the madman continued to beat,
two to three hours, till my body was a mess.
I must have been in a fog,
but survival was there,
somehow crawling up the stairs,
a baby on one hip, and a toddler on the other.
The goal was getting the babies out,
my body was a horror,
swollen, bloody and bruised everywhere,
but a single thought of their safety prevailed.
Upon going out the door,
the madman grabbed the three year old,
held him up against the wall,
and demanded my return to finish his task.
Drunk in a stupor,
children screaming and crying,
he would not relinquish the child,
till I submitted to his wishes.
A small lady, petite in nature,
full of fire and spunk,
stood with a baseball bat in hand,
looking up at a giant and said, “RELEASE HIM!”
Babies were screaming, but both were safe,
ambulances were called, and police dispatched,
in a total daze I watched the scene unfold,
my son, my daughter and myself standing in the cold.
I was rushed away to the hospital that night,
laying there mangled and full of grief,
humiliated and ashamed, tears streaming down,
as the doctors and nurses begin their examinations.
When all was said and done,
examinations were over,
one broken rib, cracked jawbone,
mouth cut up and two black eyes was the final tally.
Memories of laying there wanting to hide,
visions of the night swirling so clear,
but the embarrassment and feeling of violation,
was more fierce than the pain.
A call to my parents, three hours away,
come get me, take me from here,
with the clothes on our backs,
we left that day, never to return.
Ironically, my father an abuser himself,
was livid with anger and demanded,
loudly and strongly, revenge of the violation,
one horror to another, what was I to do.
Pictures were taken, the ghastly evidence,
more doctors, more visits, more questions asked,
what happened, who did this,
how could you allow this?
Back to the place of my beginnings,
full circle was done, but with two additions,
a boy of three and a girl of one,
with a mother who felt broken.
My thoughts were still of humiliation,
embarrassment and denial,
laying, waiting to heal, wondering,
what do I do now?
Days must have past as the little boy of three,
nursed his mother back to health,
watching, crying, somber,
pointing at the bruises and shaking his head.
The time passed had come to take care of business,
face the world and jump back in,
terrified of the madman,
through daily intimidation.
When asked if he had done the beating,
his reply was a simple, “no”,
“she did it to herself,” was the reply,
or, “she fall down the steps.”
No remorse was felt nor given,
it was my parents fault for interfering,
my fault for leaving,
the world’s fault for being.
Till this day, if asked of the madman,
the reply is the same,
the response is continual,
“not my fault!” he says with a smirk.
Fear was intense since that dark day,
always looking over my shoulder,
easily frighten, no peace in the night,
calls from the madman, pushing to the edge.
Until a year later, I woke up out of the fog,
“no more”, I told myself, “no more”,
if he kills me, he kills me,
I will not live as a prisoner.
He called as usual,
with words of threats,
“I’ll take the children” or
“I could kill you, get off cause I am crazy!”
He is a weak man, this giant madman,
a truly sick individual with many a problem,
he got his strength from threats and intimidation,
I saw clearly this fact that day.
When he started his spill of the usual threats,
I calmly, coldly said in a low voice,
“knock yourself out, darling, do what you have to,
no more madman, you pick the place and time.”
It so shocked him, I remember to this day,
he didn’t get the response that fed his nature so well,
the instant fear, the sigh,
or an automatic sense of distress.
That day was a monumental one for me,
a reckoning of sorts, a stance till this day,
that no matter how dark, no matter how bleak,
stand up to the demon and hold your ground.
Not to say, over the years that passed,
his menial attempts of disruption,
did not ripple the waters,
he just was not able to make waves from that point on.
I still have no memories of that dark night,
other then looking up the stairs and seeing my son,
or the first strike that started the assault,
so deep is the pain, so that is why I write.
copywrite pending, 1996 All Rights Reserved

"A Boy to A Man?"
A boy of blonde hair, curls galore,
chubby cheeks, and rosy lips, dimples so deep,
a strong body and a will that constantly soared,
bright blue eyes, never wanting to sleep.
I was never we, but him and me,
we learned about each other, and sealed our fate,
he was as dependent upon me, as destiny meant it to be,
a family was not a vision the father could contemplate.
The toddler came down on an unfortunate night,
sitting on the stairs watching his father’s fist,
hitting his mother, the night full of fright,
the boy grew weary, jumped in for this mother to assist.
Father was not pleased, with the boy’s loyalty,
took the child up and help him to a wall,
while the mother grabbed his baby sister, who all thought as royalty,
the father insisting, death would be his, if the mother would stall.
Three hours had passed, since the boy of three,
sit on the steps and watched his mother face darkness,
fifteen minutes more and the boy would die and not be,
God above was watching, and got us free from the madness.
The young boy of three, nursed his mother’s bruises and broken bones,
barely able to talk, but whispering in her, ear, “it’s all right mommie, don’t cry anymore”,
standing vigilant, looking fierce beyond his years, never leaving her alone,
wiping her head with a cool cloth, tenderly kissing where she was sore.
The boy grew to a man that day on the steps,
the pain in his eyes, still there till this day,
remembering the long days his mother wept,
the memories of the night never to far away.
His sleep is disturbed, he is restless during the awaken hours,
tries to concentrate, but can’t understand,
how there can be beauty such as the flowers,
and yet such ugliness under his father’s command.
He is a man now and maybe he will ask,
“Why father, what could ever make you stray,”
in the beginning, and has since been the task,
not we, but him, his sister
copywrite pending, 1996 All Rights Reserved

"Why Mom?"
Years passed, slow and long,
while you watched or ignored,
your husband, the father of your children,
torment and bully, I must ask, “Why mom?”
Did not you find it the least bit odd,
or possibly a little bit strange,
the way he disciplined,
with anger and hits, I must ask, “Why mom?”
Surely, you were not that weak or blind,
to not have seen the torment,
that this man dished out,
on a daily basis, I must ask, “Why mom?”
Looking up at you for a possible escape,
but you just stood there, or laid upon the couch,
as though you were in a world of your own,
or oblivious to his actions, I must ask, “Why mom?”
I am not accusing or pointing the finger,
just mere curiosity, and I often ponder,
how could a mother, stay with a man,
known for his anger, again, I must ask, “Why mom?”
copywrite pending, 1996 All Rights Reserved

"No Where to Hide"
A word, a thought, or a certain look,
who knows what breaks the light,
that allows the darkness to surface,
ominous and dangerous, his need to fight.
Search to the right, and search to the left,
please God, I pray, make me small,
eyes frantically looking throughout the room,
make me disappear, blend me to the wall.
Feeling the anger and fearing the outcome,
the storm and the blackness swarming so near,
anticipating the pain and sinking deep,
shutting down all reaction, except the shedding of a single tear.
Backed in a corner, no where to hide,
nothing to be said, but to wait for the passing,
the slaps against the face time and time again,
the words flowing ugly and harassing.
Swollen from tears and red whelps standing high,
humiliation from a man whose seed you are born,
elimination of all self-esteem present and future,
and ever present mark for all of time to be worn.
Time and time again, always cautious of surroundings,
sensitive of openness and barriers to freedom,
his words still linger and chime for years,
never any peace, please god, to me, come.
copywrite pending, 1996 All Rights Reserved

"Contrasts"
You are a winner……You are a loser
I believe in you……You will never achieve
I love you……I hate you
My world is a better place because of you……My world is worse because of you
You will be something someday……You will never amount to anything
I am sorry……You deserve it
Lean on me……Stand alone
You are beautiful……You are ugly
Everyone loves you……No one loves you
Blessed be the day you were born……Curse the day I first laid eyes on you
You are smart……You are stupid
You can do it……You will never do it
Try again……How many times are you going to fail
It will work……It will never work
Can……Can not
Forever……Never
Why not……Why try
For your good……For your own good
Not your fault……Always your fault
I chose to do it……You made me do it
Open……Closed
Listen……Ignore
Listen……Talk
Sympathize……Accuse
Defend……Prosecute
Nurturing……Abusive
Caressing……Hitting
Hugs……Restraining
Talking……Yelling
Asking……Demanding
Significant……Insignificant
Fond memories……Painful recalls
Good self esteem……Insecure
Come to me……Get away from me
To live……To survive


copywrite pending, 1996 All Rights Reserved
You may e-mail the author at:
lnoronhaex@worldnet.att.net

 

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Background by Dispatcher Babe
The Artist is Jonathon Earl Bowser