Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

my sister handed me a box
mother's life in fragments of inked paper,
ashes from fire barrels of her traveling mind...
encased cardboard reality
paper nuts and bolts, scotch-taped heart

crazy glued souvenirs, cracked
by the rigors of disappointment
no pumpkins into coaches, no high heels
that fit like gloves, no fancy-shirted prince,
only frayed cheap dresses, bargain basement

here in her poetry and musings on scraps...
withered paper, disintegrating records of time eaten by bugs...
I can only imagine the unintentional prison home
that came with a teen-aged union in a country church
no starstruck wannabe movie idols, no awards for nuthin'

the subjugation
of a bad role
in a bad play
unsuited for your abilities
no fame, no fortune, no connection

no autonomy.....romance long gone

Memories.

having just moved my mother into a facility, this resonates...
cleaning out her apartment
of trinkets, of treasures, of things
so precious to her
holy relics
junk
detritus
that accumulated like so much dust
sifting down for six decades or more
things
of no use
but possessing some deep totemic value
only she could see...

the subjugation
of a bad role
in a bad play
unsuited for your abilities
no fame, no fortune, no connection

no autonomy.....romance long gone

Whew ! (wiping sweat from brow)

how large the dreams
unseen, unguessed
under lock and key