About This Author

Hi there!

I'm a grandmother, a nursing educator, an avid knitter and an aspiring writer. I created this page for family and friends who expressed interest in reading my writing. It is mostly poetry with a few short stories sprinkled here and there .

The poem on this page is one my Mom favored. The collectible trinket is from a needlework picture of Longfellow's home she completed. Mom loved poetry and was an avid reader. She and my brother,Rasputin , inspire me still.

I have a published form modification called the Rondel Grand Modified; it is located here:
http://www.poetrymagnumopus.com/forums/topic/2842-invented-forms-found-only-at-w...

Drop me a note by clicking on the "Contact Me" link above and let me know you stopped to visit.


Happy reading and write on!


Frayed Feisty Threads - Book IV
#900378 added December 27, 2016 at 1:21pm
Restrictions: None
What Really Makes Me Furious 9/8/1992

         Personal insults, whatever their origins, serve to decrease self-esteem, belittle and would with a below-the-belt vengeance that no fighter’s punch could deliver. The anger I feel is unbelievable, followed in quick succession by pain and grief and always disbelief. It is this disbelief that fuels my anger most; I am consistently amazed at my own naiveté and incredulity. It is always difficult for me to imagine being really furious over anything. However, I have had my moments. One of those moments came at a time ten years ago when I was betrayed by someone I trusted. The scars of that betrayal I have carried with me and no matter how hard I try, those anguished feelings rise up in all their horrid ugliness, blinding mw and rendering me incapable of recognizing the source of provocation, holding hostage the element of clear reason. Being treated disrespectfully, being told that I “don’t know anything”, that I am “not with the program” and “Mom, I told you yesterday!” makes me feel angry and vulnerable. This personal attack is especially effective when it comes from impudent teenagers whom I brought into this world, have supported and raised single-handed and whom, at these times, I am ready to take out of this world, single handed, or at least temporarily out of my space while I try to figure out what happened to elicit “Wrath of the Teenagers Who Think They Own the World”, sequel 2000, into my already complicated life. The power of personal insults to touch that moment of betrayal opens a well-spring of emotion, that in a moment of disbelief, erodes my bank of trust and faith in mankind. It is this betrayal of soul eroding the fragility of one’s humanity that makes me furious.

9/8/1992

tuc



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