Love Bleeds Through The Cracks Of My Broken Heart

After you left, a black hole swallowed my soul.

You were relegated to a guestbook of powder blue,

pressed in loving memory between the tear-stained pages,

and stored within a cedar chest at the foot of her bed.

I knew you as father, but I never really knew you.

My thoughts of you were just that - thoughts - thoughts that grew in stages

as I imagined you within my heart and in my head.

 

She never wanted to talk about you except to say

you died in Vietnam so, of course, a hero was born.

Little girls need someone to look up to and so did I.

Now and then, I would sneak a peek and then put you away,

terrified that she would get mad and yell at me with scorn.

She was always angry, and I never understood why.

 

It was weird.  It was like we could never mention your name.

You were always on the periphery just out of sight,

peering around the corners of a past - intangible.

You had no voice and no presence; yet, you lived just the same.

You were her husband and my father, but I had no right

to ask questions.  She was cold, heartless, and infrangible.

 

I never thought of her as a widow.  She never mourned.

She was emotionally absent and controlled with fear.

She did not want us to know about you and him and her.

She was narcissistic and insecure; and she adorned

herself with many men over the years, making it clear

that we were unwanted reminders, a thorn and a burr.

 

It wasn’t until I was nineteen that I learned the truth.

She could never be the mother that she wanted to be.

She was broken and tortured by her own choices in life.

She inflicted so many wounds with each lie and untruth.

It is laughable to say that we were a family.

You were dead, and she never played the good and faithful wife.

 

No!  She welcomed your best friend into your marital bed

and continued to lay with him even after you were gone,

even when she drove you to drive yourself into the grave.

She did not feel any remorse but carried on instead;

and we, your dutiful daughters, your disremembered spawn,

were treated as less than nothing, a whipping post, and slave.

 

When I finally found you, I fell down upon my knees.

My dear, sweet hero lay long forgotten without a name.

I never came to visit as I knew not where you lay.

I found and lost that part of me no other man can seize.

Fort Hill guards you day and night beneath an eternal flame

and winter’s wings nostalgically carry me today.

 

I have been starved of you, seeking scraps but gathering none.

A blackbird falls from a leafless tree, and the willow weeps.

She leans into the wind, her long tresses sweeping the ground;

and another day ends in silence with the setting sun.

The past is done, and its legion of night its murmur keeps,

eternally whispering but never making a sound.

 

For reasons unknown to me, I am trapped in knotted vines.

The loss of love, the fatal lies are all I’ve ever known.

I cannot find you in the bottom of this empty well.

I am desperately seeking solace between flowing lines,

languishing with every breath in solitude all alone.

I never knew the loss of you would suffer me to hell.

 

And yet, I live another day to shake out all the shame,

to find some recompense in this burden upon my back,

and walk within the shadow of the pain you left behind.

Am I a waste of time, an empty vessel without claim?

Is this struggle worth the inner happiness that I lack?

I do not know for, although I see, sometimes I feel blind.

 

I dreamed my way into your heart, to place my hand in yours,

smiled the smile a daughter feels in the chambers of her heart.

I cried until white blossoms opened like the opal moon;

and found despite the passing years, my love for you endures.

I touched the face I never knew, my thoughts of you impart.

I called for you and cried for you an hour none too soon.

 

The cedar chest exists no more; its contents can’t be told.

Remnants of you in powder blue were all I ever had.

For all the pain with nought to gain, there is no counterpart;

and your story in my story, its pages yet unfold.

Turning slowly day by day, some are happy, some are sad.

Most of all, the love bleeds through the cracks of my broken heart.

Author's Note

Reviews

[Lorry]

Families when done well can make you, and when done not so well can break you.
No child deserves the bitterness and blame for something they were never allowed to understand and the parents bitterness hmjust in fests their own thoughts until their blame seeps into you and you carry it like its your fault, when it never was.
You should be proud of every achievement in life that you made, including the self therapy of this wonderfully written piece, and use that as a silent Eff you thank you for never been given the chance every kid deserves.
It may not fel like you have won, but you do, every day that you don't become like her, the one that should have known better, but covered it all in her lies.

[emmajoygreen]

One of the most tragic poems, tales, I have ever read in here. How you have survived is a miracle and to write not only the above poem but many others and some superbly laid.

Sufferomg creates so many facets in life: the search for a heart=home; indelible tragedy from outer skin to core; the need to prove self, to lose self, to be allowed to be self. Prayers for everything come true, Linda. Have 'known' each other for so many years, if you remember, would be next to each other overlooking.. all sorts of places and people if time and space had allowed. Always here.

[AYVID N]

A heart and soul is laid bare in this poem and all the pain of the years comes through in beautifully expressed words. Never knowing a father and yet loving and thinking so deeply of him is beyond brave and it isn't something just anyone can do. It takes a Braveheart Linda and you're one. Kudos on this wonderful story and thank you for sharing it.

[willweb]

Ok, I had previously read the poems you posted this weekend, allowed them to settle in and read them again. I have reviewed all but this one. I have saved this one for last and maybe I just am having a hard time speaking to this poem. It is definitely written as a showcase of your talent and your poetic abilities which I always find mesmerizing and magical. And still, it is no different with this one except...the sadness drips off of this creating puddles of sorrow at the bottom of the page. My heart breaks to hear this and I assume this is factual and not imagination though desperately hoping it is merely imagination.
All I can say at this point is, the future waits and it is promising. Keep gazing ahead and leave the past in the past, enjoy what is coming and smile as much as you can. You have friends and family right here on WC. We welcome you with open arms...even if you have been here for many years...always family.

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Thank you, willweb. Unfortunately, I didn't have much of a stable foundation growing up. It was anything but. The actions of my parents, along with their inability to love, has and probably always will affect me in one way or another. It's in my DNA, and it's a part of who I am. Writing just helps me to unfold all of those feelings and try to unload some of that burden from my soul. Out of all of my poems, the ones about my parents are always the saddest. I will forever mourn the loss of the love that I should have known but never did. It's just a reality for me.

[Chris Shaw]

A difficult read. This reader from a very happy family, with an adored Dad has no adequate words to express the torture experienced here. I know it to be autobiographical which impacts even more. You deserved so much better. Every line weeps tears.

Chris

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Thank you, Chris. All children should be so blessed, and I am glad that you were.

[Neville]

It is an absolute honour and privilege to be the very first visitor to these fine words .. for they are without doubt fine words and I leave them now with a lump in my throat that I can't seem to shift .. but I know it's thanks to them, these words of yours I mean .. I give both you and them 100/100 but believe me, I would happily and most willingly award them more ..... Neville ... aaargh I just noticed a great man beat me here .. hence the edit

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Thank you, Neville. You are so kind.

[Neville]

no, I am me and you are worth it ..

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Bless you. :)

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Beautiful music to accompany a beautiful poem that is just torture to read.
My mom went through some things in her childhood that made her a bit distant...
she tried to be a good mom, and was...but when we hugged her there was always that pulling away...stiffness.
You had every right to know your father....or if this is not autobiographical...the speaker did.
Your poetry leaves nothing back...you attack your reader with these words...and make me feel for the speaker in the poem and then for that gap my mother and I had as well.
j.

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Thank you, Jacob. It is indeed autobiographical unfortunately.