Search This Blog

Thursday, January 30, 2014

If The World Were New Again

If the world were new again
The air would smell fresh and sweet,
But I would be on the lookout,
For gigantic Mammoth……poop.

All of my food would be fresh,
Each root and fruit a surprise,
I would feast on bison burgers,
But without my curly fries.

I would draw all of my pictures
On the walls of my cave-rnous home,
And when I wanted a new sofa,
I would have to haul in stone.

My garments would be hand made,
I would not shop for what I wear,
I would simply send my man out
To kill a big cave bear.

Our clothing would be simple,
Sewn together with deer bone.
I would sew, cook, and watch the kids,
In my “cozy,” new world home.

Every day I would be a grillin’,
Bobby Flay would be so proud.
No “Kiss the Chef” for hubby.
Only women are allowed.

I would butcher meat, raise the kids,
Forage and scrape hides.
Tan elk skins with deer brains
And put winter food aside.

I would work nonstop from dawn to dusk
Just to keep my people alive.
Guarding my children from the fire,
And hoping that they would thrive.

And when the sun would finally set
At the end of a long, hard day,
I would freshen up the fire,
To keep wild beasts at bay.

I would snuggle down in my furs,
Beneath which bug-ridden grasses lay,
Drawing my small family near,
And then I would………….. WAIT!!!

Thank God, this was just a daydream!  Where is the control to my electric blanket?

©Debra Shiveley Welch - 2009

Wednesday, January 29, 2014

New Beginning

I stood at the threshold
Between life and death,
Called up my courage
As breath followed breath.

Day followed day
And with the passage of time,
I knew that victory
Would certainly be mine.

Rejoicing in my triumph,
Celebrating each day,
I cried with joy
On my resurrection day.

I stand in the sun –
Feel it’s warmth on my skin,
And bow to my creator
As once more I begin.

© Debra Shiveley Welch 2014

Thursday, January 9, 2014

I'm Not A Statistic

I could throw down statistic after statistic regarding child abuse.  The numbers are heartbreaking.  But, I’m not going to do so.  I am not a statistic.  I have a name.  I have a face.  I have a soul.  I am a veteran of child abuse.
At the time of my travail, most people refused to help.  They didn’t want to get involved, and there was the silent command, “Thou shalt not interfere with a family.” As I grew, and broke away from my torment, I began to ask questions, many questions, heartrending questions, and the terrible conclusion that somehow, I was not worthy to be saved.
As a mother, I find myself perplexed as to how anyone could harm a child, God’s greatest gift.  I wonder why my love was thrown away, and I think of my compatriots who are enduring abuse now.  Children without a voice, longing for love and deeply, deeply ashamed of what is happening to them.
Yes, ashamed.   Somehow we internalize that we are defective in some way: no one can love us; no one cares about us.  We take the blows, the neglect and the abuse as our due – “It’s my fault.  If I could just behave better, be prettier, smarter, faster, if I could, if I could…if I could.”  Nothing you do is good enough, so it must be your fault.
I used to walk at night in the hopes of avoiding the violence that was the makeup of my home.  Peering into windows as I walked past, I’d see families sitting around a table, laughing, talking; a father lifting his little girl high above him as she squealed with delight; father and son in a tickling match, with Mother watching and laughing, holding her sides, face glowing.  A clean house, a warm house, a house full of laughter, all underscoring the fact that mine was a dark, dirty, vicious hell.  It was my fault.  It had to be my fault, my shame, and so the hopes and dreams within me slowly died.
Our lives, experiences, kindnesses and even cruelties are like a set of dominoes, stood on end, waiting for the catalyst that will begin the pattern they will form as one touches the other, touches the other, touches the other. So my life was touched by an incredible woman who showed me that I was worthy, that I was intelligent, that I could have a life beyond the torment that could be clean, healthy, and satisfying. Had it not been for Mother Aquinas, I think that I may have been lost.  But she cared, she helped, she saved me:  me – not a statistic, not a number – me.  Years later I adopted a little boy born with cleft lip and palate and was able to give him the love and support I didn’t have.  I’m not sure that I would be the mother I am today had it not been for Mother Aquinas, now Sister Helen Marie.  She helped me break the circle of abuse by helping me.  Helping me, the individual, the battle torn.
I am not a statistic.  I have a name.  I have a face.  I have a soul.  I am a veteran of child abuse.


Wednesday, January 8, 2014

The Night I Died

The Night I Died

I came to you on a winter day,
Clean, my soul unmarred,
Wanting only to be nurtured,
To be held,
To be loved.

I grew as did my love for you:
My parents;
My protectors;
My shields,
Against danger.

How was I to know
That you were the ones
Who I should fear?
Silence became
My best friend.

Curled into a ball
In a closet corner,
I wept,
I yearned,
I died.

Now I mourn
The death of me
The death of the woman
I might have been –
She died.

© 2013 Debra Shiveley Welch

Excerpt from my upcoming anthology, Swinging Bridge, soon to be published through Saga Books.  http://www.SagaBooks.net.