Penny’s Poetry

Over the years Penny wrote a number of Poems, and in 2019 joined a local group of poetry writers who met regularly to share their writings. Penny enjoyed these very much. I have included here a selection of her poetry.

Queenie’s Eight Puppies

Even in the darkest childhood there are times of light. It may be with friends, at school or with a useful family member. This was one of mine. I was ten years old, enjoying this wonderful day with my lovely, eleven-year-old step-sister, Dorothy, who was visiting for the summer.

Whenever I wish to cheer myself, or I see some similar puppies, I bring this memory out of its special place and enjoy it fully!

“I’m being trampled by puppy feet!”,
I gasped through giggles. “Me too!”, my sister giggled back.
Queenie gratefully rested in a peaceful
Corner of the musty old chicken shed.

The sun shining through smudged shed windows warmed us.
Fresh straw buffered our elbows and knees,
As we gleefully rolled about with the merciless puppies.

Puppy noses tickled under our shirts, while sharp puppy teeth
relentlessly tugged at our clothes, sandals and plaits.
Soft, shiny puppy fur soothingly rubbed against our scratches and welts.

Our ears were full of puppy growls and barks,
Not to mention our own non-stop squeals and laughter.
It was a perfect summer’s day.

Molestation

I was facilitating a support group in California and members wrote poetry, drew pictures or wrote little stories to express their feelings or experiences about the abuse they had been exposed to.

This was my poem, written from my point of view as a child, concerning telling my mother about the sexual abuse by my step-father. His abuse started when I was four, but this poem is about telling my mother when I was six.

“It’s a secret”,
Daddy says.
No one will know
Except me and him.
It’s our special game.

“Be nice to your new daddy”,
Mommy says.
“Mind him -
Do what he tells you.”

Daddy, I don’t like our game,
It hurts me, I’m afraid.
No, I don’t want to go to jail....
Mommy will too believe me!

I told.
Mommy’s mad at me,
She says I’m a liar.
Daddy says I’m lucky,
I could have gone to jail.

Oh well, I’ll just keep pretending
I’m somewhere else.
Maybe daddy will get tire
d Of his game.

I hope mommy won’t be mad anymore.
I promise I won’t tell again.

Sexual Abuse

My books, and the therapists who have been trained in the therapeutic model I created, Parks Inner Child Therapy, have helped many people reclaim their life from the ravages of childhood abuse. However, there is such a back-log of people who have yet to find help (plus more added to the list everyday), it sometimes feels overwhelming.

I feel it most when watching a documentary or reading about someone’s poignant story. Several years ago, I wrote about those feelings in this poem.

It’s been over for thirty years.
I’ve come a long way -
No more nightmares,
No more shakes, sweating or panic
When I talk about it.

I’ve learned to stop blaming myself.
I’ve stopped hating my mother
For not saving me.
Anger and bitterness towards my stepfather,
And the five other abusers,
Has slowly ebbed away.

I have finally chosen a partner
Who is loving.
I no longer sabotage my happiness
With people and problems,
To pay for a debt that I never owed.
I don’t feel defective any longer.

But still, when I hear the stories
Of others like me, I cry.
There seems to be a terrible grief inside.
A howling cry that would finish me
If I let it out.

Grief for innocence and freedom
I never knew as a child.
Grief for the others, not as lucky as I,
Whose loss may consume them.

Time Marches On

During my late forties, I watched a film about a woman looking back on her life, noting what she had learned and how she had changed. I began to think about my own life in those terms. Remembering my attitudes and choices in my twenties made me blush and then laugh with embarrassment – could I have been so ridiculously self-absorbed?!

As I thought about my thirties, it didn’t seem much better. I still found plenty to blush and laugh about. However, it did seem that some improvement had developed in my forties, so, smiling, I deemed it appropriate to record it all in a poem.

Isn’t it surprising
How clear hindsight is?
But isn’t it dreadful
To have to view those unpleasant ghosts
Which suddenly become crystal clear?!

At twenty...
‘I’ve always been
Mature for my age’.
(The lack of humility
Should have been a clue)
Busily blazing new trails,
I ignored all road signs.

At thirty...
I changed my name;
Religion and hometown.
Values; job; hairstyle;
And bought a new car.
Carved notches on my bedpost.
Observed all road signs,
Followed those pointing inward.

At forty...
Changed my name again
And sold my bedpost.
I’m busy reading old roadmaps,
(Mine and other’s)
Hoping to avoid the ghosts
Of mistakes past.

My Friend

This was written about a friend who was very special to me. I wanted to write something that identified exactly what it was that made her so special. Over the years I’ve been blessed with a few more exceptional friends like her.

A special smile
When I hear your name.
An instant lift
To hear your voice on the ‘phone.
Exhilaration
To be in your presence.

How can there be so much to say
When we’re together?
The exchange of energy
Is always a surprise.
Something about you
Stimulates my mind
To sudden creative ideas.

When I’m with you
I’m funnier, wiser,
Very intuitive and feel special.

Even better than all that...
I don’t change status
In your eyes when I’m
Stupid, depressed, foolish,
Confused and feel
Less than ordinary.

In fact, being with you
Can change all that negative to positive.

Thank you, my friend.

Suicide

Suicide was something I had struggled with – a horrible shadow that visited me when things were especially difficult.

My father had shot himself when he was 43 (I barely knew him and only have three memories of him) and my mother would frequently warn me that I would end up like him, ‘You’ll kill yourself someday, just like your father did!’ I’m still not sure why she thought it was important to say that, other than I must have had behaviours, appearance or ‘ways of being’ that were similar to him.

It felt like a prophecy that I had to fight against, so I’m not surprised that ‘suicide’ became a horrible shadow in my life.

As a side note, my mother always said my father was 42 when he died, so when I turned 43 I rang my mother to brag that I had fully passed 42 and was not dead. Instead of any realisation that she may have caused distress with her prediction, she casually commented, ‘Oh, no, he was 43 when he died’. I rolled my eyes and, with tongue in cheek, answered, ‘Gee, thanks Mom, another year of fear.’

The dark side...
it beckons me, ‘step in’.
‘Step in, no struggle here.
Sweet nothingness.
No pain, no fear,
no trying to figure out why.’
‘Step in’.

I push away,
yet at the same time
i’m strangely drawn.
It seems so easy there,
and I’m feeling tired.
With massaging fingers
the dark side pulls again.
‘Step in’.

Shall I?
The recent pain
has left my mind so raw,
it hurts to think.
I yearn to be like a child again,
with someone else in charge.
Let them sort me out
and reassemble all my parts.

‘Step in’
Ignore your gains,
concentrate solely on your loss.
That’s the catalyst used
to step into the dark side.
Faces flash before me.
The agony reflected there
jars my mind to think again.

The faces are those who I love.
Will I pass my pain along to the innocent?
They deserve it less than I.
Step in? No, I’ll sleep now.
In the morning,
I’ll step up.

Loneliness

I was in my late-thirties and, despite the draw backs of my childhood experiences, I was a successful and strong woman. People seemed drawn to me because of my inner strength, they would often divulge their fears, weaknesses and problems to me, saying they had never shared the information with anyone else.

I didn’t mind being supportive to others, but occasionally, I longed for a close partner who I could fully trust and share my own vulnerability. I knew the kind of relationship I wanted, but I was challenged to meet that sort of ‘someone’. This poem expressed my feelings at that time.

Loneliness.
Not the kind relieved by company.
I can still be lonely in the midst of others.

My need is for the comfort
Of someone who knows me.

Where thoughts are exchanged
As tangible as words.

Feelings are expressed in a look,
As easily as in an embrace.

I yearn to surrender my vulnerability
Into trusted hands.

Living with Grandmother

When I was two, my estranged birth father kidnapped me to punish my mother. He took me from California to the state of Washington, abandoning me for several months with my grandmother. She wasn’t expecting me, nor did she welcome me.

She was very strict - I don’t remember her smiling or laughing. She had all sorts of rules she quoted daily: ‘Children should be seen and not heard’, ‘Want never gets’, ‘Curiosity killed the cat’, etc. I don’t think I understood half of what she was trying to tell me.

I wrote this poem in ‘first-person’ from my younger self.

“Eating between meals isn’t allowed here.
You must eat what you’re given, when you’re given it,”
But, sometimes…my tummy is still hungry.

Grandmother’s face is dark and frowning,
she points and shakes her finger.
“Children are never too young to learn the rules!”
I’m two years old.

I crouch behind the wood burning cooking stove,
I pretend I’m a cat.
There are no rules for cats.
I lick milk from the cat bowl there.

I jump on my cat legs to the pantry.
With my cat paws, I eat apples,
till my cat tummy is full.
I take a cat nap.

I know that eating between meals isn’t allowed here.
You must eat what you’re given,
when you’re given it.
But, sometimes…my tummy is still hungry.

Vegetables

One of the tools I designed to help people recover from the painful memories left from dysfunctional families, involves creating Resourceful Parents – the people the original parents would have been if their own past experiences had been positive. After that is completed, a painful memory from childhood is chosen, but instead of happening as it did, instead it becomes transformed by removing the old parents and replacing them with the Resourceful Parents. The person gets to experience what it is like to be in a family where parents behave kindly – it is a very powerful experience. The result of the exercise is for the person to realise that there was nothing wrong with them, it was only the dysfunctional parents that needed changing.

This Vegetable story transforms a horrific experience from my childhood, including beating, shouting and being sick, into a Resourceful Mother using shrewd methods to encourage co-operation. I updated the story with the inclusion of Harry Potter because I would have loved that as a part of my childhood experience.

Vegetables are good for you!
Mother preached till she was blue.
But those colourful vegetables (especially green)
were impossible to chew.

It was a constant battle
between two determined foes.
One who made the rules
and one who sat for hours
before vegetables stone cold.

I practiced well my ‘sad face’
and it worked a treat with others –
Auntie, Nan and Grandad,
but not one single jot
with Mother!

Plan ‘B’ began with folded arms
and my face set hard as stone.
Crafty Mother played her wild card –
whilst I began to groan.

The Harry Potter DVD
I’d waited for so long,
started playing in the lounge
where the vegetable eaters
now thronged.

I rolled my eyes and set my face.
Then quick as a bunny my cold
vegetables were eaten.
Wiley Mother knew her game!
Her foe succinctly beaten.

Being Myself

This poem was written as a result of a conversation with a friend. We were lamenting how parents put so many expectations on their off-spring to make choices that please the parents – job, clothing, friends, books, films… Additionally, society, peers, clubs, schools, church also expect choices to be made to adhere to their viewpoints.

My friend and I were coming to the place where we wanted to make choices to suit what we wanted; but were finding the process more difficult than we expected. It seemed the ‘rules’ we had followed for so long were rather ingrained and we would find ourselves making a decision out of habit, rather than choice.

We laughed to think it was like trying to achieve something we didn’t even want or chasing someone else’s shadow. We were surprised to realise that we didn’t clearly know who we really were because we were so used to being what others told us we should be. It was fun over the next few months as we met up and wrote lists of what ‘we’ wanted to be, do, achieve, read, wear or the films we wanted to see.

Chasing a shadow -
I see her rounding the corner -
Oh...missed her once again.

The chase becomes tiring,
I stop from time to time for rest.
She returns to tease me,
dancing dangerously close,
then quickly away as I follow.

Who is she?!
The mystery often engulfs me,
tearing at my mind.
Shake her loose! Who cares!
Laugh a lot, don’t be alone,
keep busy - she’ll go away.

I’ve tried all that.
The years pass by,
the pursuit is still engaged.
Running - resting - seeking,
but not finding yet.

Funny how she looks
so much like me....
My god! Have I been chasing
a reflection of myself?
Only a mirage, formed by what
others say to be?

Let her run. She’s theirs… I’m mine.

Judge Not (Ye Fool)

Most people make judgemental comments about others – strangers, friends, family, colleagues and probably most often about people on television - something I’ve certainly been known to do.

Ironically, I would later discover (thanks to my teenaged daughters who were happy to point out my many faults) that I did/said the same things I criticised. After all, it is said that people dislike in others what is present in themselves. Consequently, I reckoned that maybe if I granted a few ‘pardons’ to others and got off my judgemental ‘high horse’, I may be successful in changing my own behaviour.

Keeping a sense of humour about the subject, I wrote this poem.

Let’s see...
Who have I condemned?

It’s important
that I make a list.

It has occurred to me,
that I have walked
in the shoes of those condemned
on several occasions, so far.

In that light,
it might be wise
to check out the list
and see what lies ahead.

Who knows,
there may be time
to grant a few pardons.

An ounce of prevention...

Battered Woman

I was active in the feminist movement in California – facilitating abuse support groups, volunteering at the battered women’s refuge, rape crisis, plus speaking and teaching personal development workshops. Although I had never been battered in an adult relationship, during childhood, beatings were almost an everyday event, so I certainly knew about paralysing fear.

Counselling the women at the refuge gave me further insight to their feelings and thoughts. The refuge asked me to write a poem that gave clarity to the complexities of their physical and emotional abuse.

The fighting...
Insults exchanged, anger escalated.
The side of my face is numbed,
bruises from my fall.
One sudden blow is followed by
his tears of remorse, an apology
and promises of ‘never again’.

The fighting...
Frustration increases.
Can’t I say anything right?
The taste of blood,
my eye is swollen shut.
I stay in the house, ashamed.
No tears this time,
just an apology and promises.

The fighting...
No special reason,
maybe foreplay
to the intercourse of battery.
Bruises, cuts, broken bones.
More painful than all is the fear.
Paralysed, like a frightened animal.
I hate what I’ve become.

No apologies this time,
no promises...