Sunday, June 17, 2012

The Last Daughter

The Last Daughter

By Micaela Bicknell

The sky has been dark for many years.
You were gone from my life before I was born,
and love was not an option.

Accusations flew,
resentment hides,
to fester and wait for primetime.

A child waits eagerly for hugs
and kisses goodnight, ones that will
never come. Lovely reddish brown curls
haphazardly separated into two uneven

Soft flannel pink night gown
covering from neck to ankle,
sitting cross-legged,
ears straining to hear footsteps
on the stairs.

Pillow full of tears,
heart full of hope,
this little girl fears,
that life is just a joke.

A girl is to adore her father,
and become her mother.

This fate was escaped
on a hot August night,
still clinging to the hope,
that it would end all right.

Joyous cries
Love, hugs, goodbye.
Hate, seething anger
ever since that awful
morning in June.

Little Boys and Their Toys

Little Boys and Their Toys

By Micaela Bicknell

Little boys and their toys,
cars crashing,
figures fighting,
imaginary ingenuity,
heroic heroes,
and broken bones.

Little boys
love their toys,
they’re not abused,
just really well-used.

Cars crash during a high speed chase.
Action figures fight
to test their might.

Great imaginary friends,
ingenuity like MacGyver,
destructive like MacGruber.

Emulating heroic heroes,
leads to bloody nose
and broken bones.

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Safe, Fear, Love, Loss

Safe, Fear, Love, Loss

By Micaela Bicknell

A soft, green hill,
Green in sight and smell.
Soft, like a warm embrace,
Music of fluttering wings
And buzzing bees.

Dark, musty, old food,
Broken down chair where he laid his head.
Yelling, screaming, wishing
Longing for death.
She is the Queen and master of everyone.
Overpowering, overbearing
Too much for 4 walls to contain.
No space to breathe, no room to grow.
She, evil, love-me-not hell.

Hands callused, yet soft in touch,
Eyes blue as a summer sky & grey as a storm,
Arms of strength for a gentle embrace,
A heart with love for three
A smile, a kiss.

Wizened, wrinkled face with kind eyes,
Lips that encouraged, loved & never shamed,
Arms opened wide, longing, always just out of reach,
Heart that never shrank or closed,
Till one sweet day, he went home.

Love Lies

Love Lies

By Micaela Bicknell
2 hearts beat with love
as passion storms through. All lies
still after the crescendo, bleeding
stains the virgin sheets. Heart
beats racing too fast to be
sad. Whispered promises to be true.

Too good to be true,
all hope is lost when love
stops. Your heart stops, lies
reborn in your mind, bleeding
tears of rage. See into his heart
there is nowhere you’d rather be

but by his side. Where would you be
if loves arrow had not shot true?
Never one for fairy tales, love
was not part of your plan. What lies
ahead for you? A warm bath, a bleeding
wrist? You’d give it all up to stop your heart

from hurting. Blackness surrounds your heart
stilling the beats, one, two, three… could it be
the note she left? Is it true?
You run, searching for your lost love.
Willing her not to believe the lies
you find her in the tub, bleeding

from the wounds on her wrist. Bleeding
across the road, not down the line. Your heart
skips a beat. How did this come to be?
The note? You swear it’s not true
this other woman lies of your love
for her. You beg her not to give in to the lies,

to hold on for you. You burn the page of lies,
yet, still she lies there bleeding.
Her life drains away as her heart
finds his love. Her soul longs to be
free from her earthly binds as his heart beats true,
he wraps her in his gentle embrace, emanating love.

He fears love, she hears lies.
She lies bleeding breaking his heart.
Could it be his love is true?

A Mother’s Gift

A Mother’s Gift
A Poem by
Micaela Bicknell

Back-bending pain, tearful pleas, agonizing cries,
a deep breath and it is done.
A wail of injustice, a loss of safety,
whimpering of fright,
soft warmth wrapped
around you.

Strength in the gentle arms that hold you,
secure in the gruff voice that speaks calmly,
no more tears gliding down the round cherub cheek,
eyes as blue as the cornflower,
skin as soft as the rose petal,
we counted them together,
ten fingers,
ten toes.

8 years later, you carry that blanket wherever you go,
soft, silken satin no longer bright with pink
dull stains mar the once shiny side,
thin from where
you worried it in
your fitful sleep.

Not long for the world of dolls and innocence,
those years we fear are rushing down upon us,
like ash from a
volcanic eruption.

Make-up, boys, clothes and shoes,
the once-pink rag, still soft and warm,
hidden under the pillow, no longer holding
a place of honor in your heart. At night you’ll
cling to it like a drowning victim to a life preserver
when your
heart’s been