I hated cloudy days
there were so many.
My hair frizzed,
Grandmother never understood my need
for hairspray, eye liner, pink lipstick.
"Makes you look like a ghost," she'd say.
Grouchy, ignorant, old fashioned, old lady.
What'd she know
about living, love, shoes, fashion, friends?
Only thing mattered to her was cooking, cleaning,
what the neighbors would say, the length of my skirt.
She didn't know my suffering:
I wasn't popular in school, history teacher didn't like me, best friend had two other best friends, though invited to a party, I had nothing to wear, skinny as a rail, wore a bra anyway, had a cute boyfriend for two days, 'til he saw my hypocrite girlfriend, Gail, my heart ached (no really it did).
Through my window, alone,
despondent with so much pain
I watched the rain.
Sometimes I thought I felt
I'd eat whatever special treat she'd made,
a glass of milk, my belly warm
then she'd say something infuriating,
before I stormed,
slammed the door.
Aaahhh, those cloudy days.
(Submitted to Poetry Jam.)
(Disclaimer - sort of. I considered removing this poem, because I'm afraid I've conveyed the wrong message. I was going for tongue-in cheek, a subtle transparency that would demonstrate my childish adolescent thinking versus my grandmother's patient, quiet love. I'd never say awful things about her now, but then I thought she was my enemy - as many teen agers do during their 'dark' stage, when nothing parents say or do is right. When I revisit those times now, I see how immature I was and wonder how she put up with my antics. I thought I suffered then because I hadn't experienced the true clouds of suffering that came later in life, and certainly those my grandmother had lived.
I apologize to my grandmother, and to you. I decided to leave the poem as a colossal example of unclear writing.
And now I hope I haven't made everything perfectly unclear.