POST-TRAUMATIC GROWTH: Improving one’s sense of wellbeing using art, creative writing, photography and blogging – my journey written by ©Karen Robinson. Please click here for my latest blog news!
Karen Robinson Poetry reading at the ‘Tall Dark & Coffee Cafe’ South Melbourne, Victoria, Australia – photo taken by husband on Karen’s Samsung Galaxy S6 Mobile Phone. NB: All images are protected by copyright laws.
POETRY & PROSE 2017
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Please click here to read about 'Poetry & Prose' by Karen Robinson
— New Arrival —
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Surprise – “We are pregnant!” Shock and then, joy — grandparents-to-be at last! Sudden thought – it’s scary; being a new mother comes saddled with trepidation. It’s a life altering event – where’s the instruction sheet? First there is: dreaded morning sickness ballooning of self to proportions unimaginable and sleepless nights of turning, wheeling, arching, stretching, curling with no comfort in sight Then there is the never-ending: When is the baby due? Is it a boy or a girl? Don’t eat green pickles, Rest more, walk some. You’re putting on too much weight. What names have you chosen? Where are you having this baby? What did the doctor say? How did the ultrasound go? Are you going back to work after the baby is born? How much is this all going to cost? Do you have the money? What does the baby need? What can I do? You’re huge! Haven’t you had that baby yet! and never-ending advice from well-meaning by-standers Mind-boggled parents-to-be stand poised, pensively waiting like race-horses at the starting gates of a Melbourne Cup. Then there is: Baby’s abrupt arrival The never-ending needs of the newly born creature devouring everyone’s mortal time. Then there is: the lumpy bumpy hollow womb Post-Natal depression New learned-on-the-go parenting skills Nights without sleep Demanding cries for mother’s milk Nappies full of pooey, gooey surprises Vegemite smeared high-chairs and banana splatter walls and floors Never ending piles of tiny clothes awaiting a wash Baby vomit appearing when least expected Abandoned toys, abandoned husband, abandoned self Then there is: falling in love with the little one its first smile, its first steps, first words your hearts melting huge hugs with every achievement a baby adored with as much love and care as can be mustered Then there is: much joy and happiness worries concerning childhood, teenager-hood years of lifetime altering events Surprise! – there is no instruction sheet! – Ο – List Poem ©Karen Robinson - August 2017
*Please click here to read the back-story about this List Poem
— Autumn —
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When you visit each year, you leave behind a carpet of leaves, a swathe of warm gold, bright yellows, blood reds and earth browns, - a dramatic reminder of your wilfulness. In my garden-paradise you leave trees naked. They stand tall, branches bare, surrendering to the call of approaching winter. Your fallen leaves will soon be hustled together, swiftly swept into a pile of aging matter, then heaved over garden beds where winter winds will whisk a playful dance. I look forward to this season of Autumn, how it shares its glorious visual feast, how it marks Time, and makes way for new seasonal endeavours. When you come and visit each year I stop, enjoy, and wonder… – Ο – Prose Poem © Karen Robinson - May 2017
*Please click here to read the back-story about this Prose Poem
— Conversation at Play —
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I called her on my mobile phone and we shared a video conversation - a new way for us to kindle our mother-daughter relationship Me with my aging worn-out face spindly freshly-washed silver-grey hair pulled up into a messy bun her with her youthful expression silken long flowing honey-coloured mane We confirmed details of our tomorrow's catch up and then the discovery of a mobile phone app where our conversation became play! Funny and hysterical images momentarily shaped our video faces creating shared laughter and giggles A small time of silliness fondly shared with my daughter a delightful re-connection that fills a mother's heart with the most comforting joy Another treasured moment of playful conversation is consciously locked away in my memory bank of her now my only child grown up she maybe but for me she will always be that cheeky beautiful child that stole my heart oh so many years ago... – Ο – Prose Poem © Karen Robinson - February 2017
— Bourke Street —
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the news charged into my space demanding my immediate attention my response ‘no - not in my town my city’ screaming now from within me the memory of my son killed in road trauma my senses heightened I find myself again saying ‘no - not in my town my city’ this Bourke Street driver killed and maimed without a thought one baby one child and 4 others run down, slaughtered in my town, my city. Melbourne now mourns cries in disbelief while loved ones crumble in their despair yes — in my town, my city. - o - Prose Poem © Karen Robinson - January 2017
*Please click here to read the back-story about this Prose Poem
— When Loved Ones Die —
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What is it when loved ones die? First there is the news. Then there is the shock. Then there is preparing for a funeral. Then there is living on without them. And during all of this there is: “I am not going to the funeral if she is going.” “No. I want to go in your car and not in Uncle Joe’s.” “Should we tell the ‘other woman’ that he is dead?” “Don’t tell Nana yet. She will get upset.” “I am not going to the funeral.” “I am going to the funeral whether they want me there or not!” “They don’t want me at the funeral?” “The airfare is too much.” “I can’t take time off from work right now.” “Gee – it’s really not very convenient.” What is it when loved ones die? “We better make sure that she doesn’t get any of his stuff.” “They didn’t call me and let me know he had died.” “I didn’t even get to say a few words at the funeral.” “I was the closest to him.” “I am not going around to say I am sorry to hear of his loss.” “Because I am not!” “I never really liked him.” “I am glad he’s dead.” “He didn’t come to my son’s funeral.” “He was never really one of the family.” “They got divorced so he is not really family.” “They never married so he is not really family.” What is it when loved ones die? “I’m not talking to him. You’ll have to talk to him.” “Who’s going to pay for the funeral?” “Don’t look at me.” “Remember when he jumped off the bridge and nearly killed himself?” “No – he was always a bastard to me.” “Remember at the birthday when he stripped off naked?” “No. I didn’t get an invitation. When was that?” “Who’s going to the funeral because if Tom, Dick or Harry are going, I’m not going!” “Who’s going to the funeral because we should all go, shouldn’t we?” What is it when loved ones die? “Are his children going?” “His children from his first marriage – no.” “His children from his second marriage – yes.” “Are his wife and ex-wife going?” “His ex-wife is going.” “And his wife is not.” “I wasn’t mentioned in the will?” “I wasn’t mentioned in the will.” “He didn’t leave me anything, not even a small token?” “He didn’t leave me anything, not even a small token.” “I am glad he is dead.” “I am sad he is dead.” What is it when loved ones die? At my funeral all will be welcome. I don’t care who will be there. If you want to come, just come because on this day my funeral day it will be about me and not about you please just for this one single day. What is it when loved ones die? What is it? It is grief. – ο – Prose Poem © Karen Robinson - January 2017
— Door Knocker! —
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Sometimes it’s a door knocker who you cannot wait to throw your arms around, “I love you! It’s so good to see you.” Sometimes it’s a door knocker who you cannot bear to see, “Oh God… it’s her again. Can’t stand it.” Sometimes it’s a door knocker who you don’t want to invite in “Shhh! Be quiet. Turn the TV down NOW.” Sometimes it’s a door knocker who holds a parcel “Yes please, this is for me. I have been waiting for so long.” Sometimes it’s a door knocker who holds a clip-board and pen “I am sick of these people. I wish they would just piss off. Hello…” Sometimes it’s a door knocker who holds a gorgeous bunch of flowers “Oh how lovely, who are they from? Sorry, they live next door.” Sometimes it’s a door knocker who is in a police uniform “Um yes…no…yes, they don’t live here anymore.” Sometimes it’s a door knocker who has forgotten to take their keys again “Not again – take your keys next time.” Sometimes it’s a door knocker who is lost “Turn right at the corner, left at the big green house, then go around the round-about. Let me repeat that.” Sometimes it’s a door knocker who is your mother-in-law “God - tidy the house! Quickly, quickly.” Sometimes it’s a door knocker who is coming to make-up after an argument “This is going to be interesting.” Sometimes it’s a door knocker who is delivering bad news “Can you repeat that please?” Sometimes it’s a door knocker who is about 3 feet high “How cute - but where’s your mummy?” Sometimes it’s a door knocker who doesn’t knock but just stands there “Bloody hell, who is that.” Sometimes it’s just a door knocker!
– ο – Prose Poem © Karen Robinson - January 2017
Please click here to read about 'Poetry & Prose' by Karen Robinson
© Karen Robinson – January 2017
POST-TRAUMATIC GROWTH: Improving one’s sense of wellbeing using art, creative writing, photography and blogging – my journey written by ©Karen Robinson. Please click here for my latest blog news!
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