Categories
Poetry

The Truth Will Set Me Free

The truth will set me free, they said
and then they told me a bunch of lies.
They said I wasn’t pretty enough,
thin enough,
old enough,
or smart enough;
educated enough,
or rich enough.
I wasn’t connected enough
or young enough,
that I’d never amount to anything,
that I’d gone as far as I could go
for far too long.
And I believed them.
But then I looked in the mirror
and saw all my strengths,
my insights,
and wisdom.
I saw my determination
and perseverance,
my dedication
and compassion,
and I realized they were right;
the truth had set me free.

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This poem by Suzette Seveny is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.
Categories
Poetry

My Glasses

When I put on my glasses today
I could barely see through the lenses;
So speckled were they with the stains
Of last night’s tears.
I wish I didn’t cry so much;
But there’s just so much to cry about.
I wish the world would stop giving me
So many things to cry about.
I wish everyone could see the world
As clearly as I can
After I clean the stains
Off my glasses.

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This poem by Suzette Seveny is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.
Categories
Poetry

Growing Pains

A poet deaf, a poet blind,

Just writing poetry of the mind.

It really doesn’t mean a thing;

A poem to write, a song to sing.

A woman strong, a woman tall;

A woman tow’ring over all.

She doesn’t know now what to say;

She just grows stronger every day.

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This poem by Suzette Seveny is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.
Categories
Poetry

The Dishes

I’m sitting and thinking about doing the dishes.
I don’t need to do them all at once;
I can do a few and then take a break.
The water will probably need changing anyway.
That new dish soap looks more attractive, but it’s not as good
And I need to use much more.
In the time I’ve been thinking about this,
I could have started the dishes.
I really should get the dishwasher fixed;
I’ll try to remember to call on Monday.
At least I sent a message to the guy who did my floors,
So he can quote on my stairs.
I hope he’s been okay through all of this;
It’s hard when you’re starting your own business,
Being self-employed during a pandemic,
With a wife and kids to help support.
This situation has hurt so many.
We need to figure out a better way
To deal with these situations in future,
Because it’s going to happen more often –
So the experts say
And it does look that way,
With SARS and H1N1
And now this COVID-19.
Damn, I could have finished the dishes.

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This poem by Suzette Seveny is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.
Categories
Life Poetry

Why Are You Here?

If people come into my life for a reason,

Then why are you here?

Are you here to give me solace?

And to comfort me?

Or to heal my heart and soul?

To touch them?

Maybe you’re here to remind me who I was?

And who I can be?

To remind me I’m still alive?

And still a woman?

The most important lessons we learn

Are the most painful ones.

So why are you still here?

And why am I?

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This poem by Suzette Seveny is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.
Categories
Life Poetry

A Secret

It was over
Before it could even start,
And I was safe again
Before I could lose my heart

Don’t say a word,
I know exactly how you feel.
I’ll make it easy for you –
I’ll paste the final seal.

I won’t cry
(At least you won’t see the tears)
And I’ll be very strong
No one will see my fears.

Inside my heart
The truth is locked away forever;
No one will ever know
The feelings I had to sever.

Is it goodbye?
I guess it must be so,
But will it make me sad?
No one will ever know.

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This poem by Suzette Seveny is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.
Categories
Fiction

Unchained

Cindy walked into her condo, slipped off her shoes and slid into her slippers. Leaving her purse on the hall table, she walked down the hall and into the kitchen. She took a bottle of wine out of the wine rack – ah, a Cabernet Sauvignon from Italy; she had heard very good things about this wine and she was looking forward to trying it.

She poured herself a glass of wine and walked through the living room to stand by the floor length glass windows looking out over the ravine behind her building. Everything was quiet; everything was peaceful.
As she sipped on her wine, she thought about how having a glass of wine when she got home was starting to become a habit. She had always enjoyed a glass of wine after work, but usually it was because she needed a way to dull her senses so that she could make it through the evening. Her wine ritual was now a way of congratulating herself for productive day and a kick off to a relaxing evening.

How much her life had changed since her divorce!  She realized that she had almost made the same mistake as her parents; chained for years in a loveless marriage, going through the motions every day and not looking forward to the future at all. What was there to look forward to? More of the same, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year. Ad nauseum.

She used to ask her parents why they didn’t travel more, enjoy life. The answer was always the same; they were going to when they retired. They had planned to rent a motor home and travel the country, spending their winters in warmer climates to the south. Except it never happened, because they got old and sick. When they died, they had never traveled, had never done anything they’d hoped for. Their lives had been chained to each other, to their children, to the jobs and to the house.

Cindy had been about to make the same mistake. When Robert admitted he’d been seeing someone else and wanted a divorce, she felt devastated; her whole life was coming apart. Then she realized that she had been set free, freed from taking the same path her parents had. She’d sold the house and spent a couple of months traveling, seeing all the places she’d once only dreamt of. She had bought this condo because it was close to the downtown area and she could walk to stores and theatres. She was focusing on filling her life with new adventures.

That meant meeting new people as well. Musicians, writers, and artists were now part of her circle, and they didn’t know the role they were playing, each was had an influence on who she was becoming. Absentmindedly, her hand caressed the silver crucifix nestled in the small of her throat. The delicate chain and crucifix were a gift from Robert several years ago, and she had never taken it off.

Reaching up, she undid the clasp and held the necklace in her hand. She loved the delicacy of the tiny chain and the crucifix held so much meaning for her, since she had always been Catholic. It was also a constant reminder of Robert though and represented another type of chain she supposed. Without hesitation, she gently tossed the necklace over the balcony railing and into the fading light of evening. The last chain to her previous life was gone.  

She was finally free.

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This poem by Suzette Seveny is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
Categories
Fiction

The Thompson House

The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person or place is unintentional.

The old Thompson house sat between a church and an empty lot. The house itself was slated for demolition, having failed to procure another wealthy patron to take up the cause. With lead glass windows and turrets that faced the front of the house, it stood silent and empty – a memory of another era. Various real estate connoisseurs had left their marks on the house; the last one had tried to divide it into separate apartments and had paved over much of the field to the back, to create tenant parking.

I walk by the house twice a day; once in the mornings on my way to my work as a teller at Fitchley Bank, and again on my way home in the evenings. Throughout the ten years that I have passed by the Thompson house, I have been witness to the house’s many transformations. And now it stands silent and empty, unloved and unwanted and facing demolition. Soon it will no longer even exist.

Every day when I walk by the house, I slow my pace and gaze at the majesty of her. My imagination transports me to the early days of its existence, at the turn of the last century. I imagine horse-drawn carriages and footmen, women in long gowns and men always neatly attired. A box at the side of the house that once held coal now holds trash bins. I’ve never been inside the house but in my imagination, I see twelve foot ceilings and crown moldings.

I guess it’s just a matter of time until the strippers come to strip away anything of value – copper piping, cedar flooring, the leaded glass. The house will soon sit gutted, condemned for safety reasons, and wait for its demise.

Something was different today though. As I walked home in the early evening at dusk, I thought I saw a flicker of light in one of the turret windows. I stopped and looked up and before the dim light faded, I could make out the profile of a woman’s face. It flashed in the window and then suddenly disappeared. Did I imagine her? Was there someone living there? Or was it simply a memory of days past, come to bid a fond farewell?

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This poem by Suzette Seveny is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
Categories
Poetry

In Hiding

I loved a man and then I lost;
And now I have to pay the cost
Of life alone in Solitude;
A constant dark’ning of the mood.

It’s not the loss that I can’t face
But haunting mem’ries of loving days;
So filled with lies and subterfuge;
T’would make another want to lose.

Perhaps I trusted much in haste.
Now I stand amidst the waste,
Trying to face reality
And slay the dragons to set me free.

But still I’m bound with all my chains,
While I’m learning to cope with all the pain
And this agony I feel inside;
But there is no haven – I cannot hide.

Originally written on May 16, 1984

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This poem by Suzette Seveny is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.
Categories
Fiction

In the Air

There was something in the air lately. After the nuclear meltdown two months ago, there was a sickness that filled the air. The ones closer to the reactor had died within days, and all of the smaller communities on the outskirts of the city had followed in the next few weeks. The results had been devasting; entire companies had been wiped out and resources were now becoming scarce.

Beth and her partner lived 300 kilometers northeast of the disaster, and had been ordered to isolate themselves and not go out at all. The poison was in the air. Beth and Carin didn’t worry though, they owned a small farm in the middle of nowhere and because of the dust and chemicals used in farming, an air purifying system and a complex water filtration system had fortunately had been built into the design of the house.

They were safe.

They’d both come from the city and many of their friends still there had become ill and died as a result of the catastrophe. The symptoms had been the same, a cough, sore throat, mild headache, and extreme weakness. Some went into a coma before they died. After losing so many close friends, they had no desire to go out themselves, so they stayed inside and ventured out only for minutes at a time, twice a day, and always with a face mask on. When they fed the animals, they quickly returned inside. They had no clue how this was going to affect their livestock.  

Time would tell.

The past few weeks, the number of deaths fell steadily, and there hadn’t been any deaths for the past two nights. They had decided to stay inside for at least another week, to sure. Other than less socializing, not much had changed in their lives. They read and they watched television, worked on the computer, kept track of finances, and followed the news very closely. Doing nothing was exhausting, it seemed.

Now, it seemed as if this was over. They’d give it a few days, or maybe a week to be safe, before going outside. None of the animals had become sick or died, so obviously the radiation didn’t reach this far away. They were been safe.

Then Beth began to cough.

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This poem by Suzette Seveny is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.