This is part of my "Regression Series" that I have been writing about my experience with regression therapy. Even if you think past-life experience is all hogwash, I hope you enjoy the poem just on it's own merit. This piece describes a woman from the 19th century in Ireland.
There is no peat, the stove is cold
and so the water will be like ice.
A sliver of soap is all that’s left, to scrub
the dirt from each small face.
Cold potatoes for some bare meal,
and each child fights for his own piece.
I’ve tried to teach them how to share,
and oh so many other things,
like God, their letters and ciphering.
But when I look into their eyes,
I see my husband’s dull, dark gaze.
He, who through his cloying ways
drew me into this ugly life of
Hopeless, endless, deprivation.
He’s now been gone three days, I’m sure
enthroned at the tavern, drunk on his pay.
The Great Man standing all his friends
another pint, while his family waits.
The priests council what they do not know,
to love, forgive, to acquiesce.
To wait for Heaven’s happiness, while
here is Hell on Earth, I know.
Hungry, cold, tired of the fight,
the children sleep in our lousy bed.
So blowing out the one small light,
I change my apron to one that’s clean
and shut the door upon my past.
I can’t save them but I can save myself.