When You Dream at Night

When you rest your head and close your eyes
Do you dream about truly becoming alive?
Does your imagination make your wildest dreams come true?
If you could dream of who you really are, what would you do?
Would you fly over the seas on a magic carpet so high
while you watch the humpback whales dance on water pass you by
Would you sail to the Bermuda to find out the unknown
Or dream you worked your nine to five and then went home
Would you explore the pyramids and travel the deserts through golden hot sand
Or would you beam to the break room with a coffee in your hand
Would you be a great ruler standing tall and proud
or wake up in the subway with the rush hour crowd
Will you listen to your boss tell you how you don't meet standards for a five
or look yourself in the mirror and know that's a lie
Do something about it until your dreams come true
because the only person who can make your dreams a reality is you
Don't live your life with regrets, jealous rage and spite
when you lay your head down to dream tonight
make sure that dream comes to life

Hello!

My name is Kristen Renee Gelpi-Griffin, and I would like to welcome you to my blog! No, I am not a professional writer, but I love to jot down things about my life from time to time. This blog is like my open book diary that I would just love to share with you. I am rather new at this, but I am excited to finally jump in to the blogging world. Anyway,  Enjoy!!

Kristen

A Good Mother

What are the expectations of a good mother? Is it to love unconditionally? To nourish the physical and mental being of the tiny person you created, until they can do so for themselves?  I sometimes wonder to myself how different I would be if I was born to a different mother. I don’t believe that my mother was a bad mother, but that would all depend on an individual’s definition of a good mother.

I grew up in Lefrak City in Queens. At the time, the neighborhood was flooded with crime. My father, a contributor to that crime, and an addict, was my best friend. He showed me what my mother never did. My father showed me love. My mother, an RN, worked hard to support our family, and my father’s drug habit. She paid all the bills, and enabled my father to continue on with his drug habit. She gave him money even though she knew what it was for; Crack. My father’s addiction continued to grow with my mother’s enabling. She worked often, and never spent any time with me. I can’t remember having any conversations with her because she never seemed interested in me. I was just there. She bought me clothes, and made sure I ate but she didn’t talk to me or show me love. My mother seemed to be all about control. Control over what you may be thinking…..my father. 

I believe my mother enabled my father all of those years to have control over him. My father was a married man with a job when she met him. He had a loving and talented wife and a beautiful baby girl.  One mistake my father made cost him a lifetime of consequences. He met my mother, and in my opinion, she purposely got herself pregnant with me to control him. Now I know what you’re thinking! It takes two and so on and so forth, but my mother knew what she was doing. She used me as a tool to trap a married man. When my father wasn’t high, he was able to think, but as long as she kept him down, or should I say high, she was in control. He lost his job and his family, but stayed with my mother. She took care of him and she took care of his habit for years.  I was just the tool that helped her keep what she needed; control of my father.  My mother left for work early in the morning and came home late in the evening. I didn’t have much interaction with her. A Hispanic woman, fluent in her native language spoke with me so little, that I myself don’t speak her native language. My love for my father grew astronomically because he was the one who was there for me when he could be.

 Although my father loved me, his urge for his drug of choice often came between us. While my mother was in the hospital for some time, pregnant with my brother, my father’s drug addiction overcame him. He left me alone to satisfy the hunger of his addiction. She had gone into labor early and needed to be kept on medicine to keep her from giving birth too soon. I trusted that my mother would love me enough to come to my savior, or at least send someone for me.  I waited for her. I waited and waited. I was eleven years old.  I slept in the hallways of my building. I wandered the streets of Lefrak City looking for my dad, but neither parent ever came for me. I often wondered if my mother forgot that I existed. I wondered if she ever loved me.  Did she call the house for weeks and worry when she got no answer? Did she even try to reach me at all? Unfortunately she didn’t. So I wonder; if a mother provides financially for their child, makes sure they have a roof over their heads and clothes on their backs, but never loves them or neglects to show love; is she still considered a good mother? If she never nurtures her children, or listens to them; can she still be considered a decent mother? If a mother uses her children as a tool to get what they need from their father, is this okay?

Years go by, and now I am an adult with children of my own. I try my best to make sure that I am the best mother I can be, but I don’t know how to be the best I can be. Am I a loving mother? Of course! I strive to give my girls what I felt I didn’t have, but I still find myself wondering; what does it take to be a good mother?

Sunday Afternoon

It was a depressing Sunday afternoon,

I longed for the precious nights spent under the moon

Watching the tide rush in on the sand

I stood there and grasped her soft hand

Oh how tiny her fingers- I held in mine

her physique so frail with a prickly spine

her hair lacked luster , it was long and thin

but to me she was my drug, the ultimate sin

how I loved her and miss her sweet smell

when I will see her again, I can’t tell

so I sit here on this dreadful Sunday

the rain taps hard on the window pane

my mind runs thinking of her,

I will soon go insane

I glanced over at the corridor leading to the trap

Placed on my Clark’s and my old wool cap

Walked toward the shed where I put her remains

It’s so terrible that things won’t ever be the same

I unlocked the old shed door, walked down the creaking stairs

Pushed away cob webs that clung to my hair

The scent of rotting flesh engulfed my nostrils quickly

The thought of leaving this underground shed came to me swiftly

I needed the closure to be sure she was dead

Her voice played over and over in my head

I pushed away old paint cans, and clutter in the shed

Opened the trap door and out she fell

Her corpse, her body, her rotting shell

I wanted to kiss her sweet remains

But instead shoved her back in enclosure to be contained

The anger engulfed me, it was all her fault

Our love was to be impenetrable like the Swiss bank vault

She betrayed me and lye naked in bed

With the normal good looking neighbor instead

I trusted her to only be misconstrued and betrayed

With the rich man is who she laid

 for the last time it was for her  indeed

And for him a watery grave at sea

On to the next love of my heart I shall search

And for the reader beware of love, I still lurk