I Remember Momma

~ Elizabeth Conte ~ 3 Comments
(1860s/1870s, 19th Century oil painting of an elderly peasant woman knitting by the light of the fire. Unsigned, British)

I Remember Momma

I Remember Momma

It was a movie, from long ago…longer than most will remember

It was a story I have never forgotten

About a little girl who yearned for more

…more than her little world offered

More than her mother, limited by her circumstances

with curses she would never be a victim of the same

And yet…

Transformed by experiences

Wisdom hard earned

I remember Momma

Idle in her head for which sickness drowned her

Stories she could remember; stories she thought she remembered

Memories she kept sacred…

Sins she had to pay

A woman of pure love…of undying love!

Who gave all she had

Who asked for more than we could give

Who never got her fill, and cursed God for it

And yet, still remained a sheep among the flock; hopes of eternity

I remember Momma

Wisdom not hers–the disease took that away

Success not a destination she reached,

but a journey of hills and valleys she climbed,

The outcomes, God’s will; Que Sera Sera!

Some called it faith, a fool’s faith

But she was no fool…just naive; hopeful

…Good! Really, really good!

Money was not attainable…leaving dreams to lay in the dirt,

seeded, but never fruitful

But everything she touched was priceless

She was priceless; not a woman of women, but a woman of humanity

A kind of angel on earth never fully realized…until they touch your life

And I am forever humbled by my shame,

to think I needed to be more than…

I remember Momma,

Oh, if only to be worthy of being just like her

Betrayal

~ Elizabeth Conte ~ Leave a comment
Charles C. Seton, 1883
And then, the lover sighting like furnace with a woeful ballad made to his mistress’ eyebrow, Act II Scene VII from As you like it
 

He gazed upon his lover…

wondering what was lost in him

To have been so tempted by her lips,

her skin’s stillness under his touch

Reaching beyond the heaviness; the quagmire of his days

filling the loss of something he could not understand–

it’s mere existence weighing down the spirit of himself

Something lost in his soul

as if from birth he was torn from her

And only in flesh their joy reunited

He looked upon his lover…

and wept

Spiritual Quest

~ Elizabeth Conte ~ 1 Comment

Edvard Munch, Selvportrett (Self-Portrait) 1881-82

Guest Post: Tim Rhatigan

Spiritual Quest

I used to believe 

we all needed a quest

to find out who we are

That life was one such journey

And it may be

But why should it not be

just everyday madness

Insanity is sanity

unless it’s sublime

And while I love the work

I don’t need another job

Am I Missing Something

~ Elizabeth Conte ~ 1 Comment

Guest Post: Tim Rhatigan

Sconset Beach, Nantucket, by Edward Emerson Simmons, 1916

AM I MISSING SOMETHING

Days and nights 

roll in and out

like waves

with no notice

of tiny sand pebbles 

or life’s daily drama

The sand is silent 

to the sea’s shifting tides

our prayers fall short 

of the stars circling above

returning stubborn silence

to anxious hearts

Unraveling Eternity

~ Elizabeth Conte ~ 1 Comment


(Spring, Edvard Munch, 1889)

Unraveling Eternity

They tell me you are dying

Don’t they know? 

From the moment you took your first breath you were dying             

you knew that

The girl who saw the shadows as doorways

An opening exposing pasts that can never change

A hint of the future with multiple yous

Untapped, undiscovered, and predetermined all the same

Wondering wide-eyed into the light

Adventures only limited to the what the imagination could inspire

Feelings unraveled that were never tempered–not with you–               

anger and love equal in fervor

Where is all that now?

Now that your body is no longer the vessel of experience

Questioning the reasons; tortured by the reality of Hell…

            this process of death

I have looked upon you as a goddess–a warrior of life

A boundary breaker of a soul’s purpose

You didn’t limit your perspective

            you saw the truth in living

And now as death reaches for your grasp

You pull back not in fear, merely an instinctual recoil

Not haunted by what has been, or even what is

            but in wonder as to where you are going next?

The Matrix

~ Elizabeth Conte ~ 3 Comments

(Satan Smiting Job with Sore Boils, William Blake, c1826)

The Matrix

Fierce is the storm that rises from the abyss

All must yield in its path

The weak curl; the timid falter

Only conviction of mind, strength of will, does one push through

Damaged and drained, savagery sneers 

Darkening the brilliance of Source

The depths of Hell keep coming

There is no reprieve, only openings for despair–

Moments of bliss are only deceptions of reality

Belief in the Almighty spares your spirit

But Evil’s wrath ravages your soul

A feather is no weapon against a sword

And yet, we still breathe in the rapture of existence

The Locket About Us

~ Elizabeth Conte ~ Leave a comment

4-The-Gold-Locket-Impressionist-women-Frederick-Carl-Frieseke.jpg

The Gold Locket, Frederick Carle Frieseke, 1917-1919)

The Locket About Us

Ask me what I know

How it is that we sit here today

What I am to you, you to me

The secrets that I have kept for so long

The shrouded veil that I have lived behind

The flailing flaps offering glimpses of the past

Do you see them–the snippets of time lost?

Stirring “something” you can’t ignore

The memories locked in time

I know too much; told too many things

For which I dare not share

For which I do anyway… hidden of course

In the sketches of my mind

On display waiting to be unlocked, unraveled, interpreted

You don’t grasp it, not yet

Maybe it’s not for you to “see” until you are ready

But even then, I wonder…

Why the angels taunt us with the awakening

And so, I say, ask away

Challenge the status quo

Let your imagination ponder the existence of all humanity

Of our intertwined connection

But when you are done what does it resolve?

Life is what it is

Our choices are made

The paths walked on in other directions

And knowing doesn’t make a difference