Articles

Credit to the author must be given when using these “free to share” Poems and articles. 

Unborn Dreams

There isn’t time to change her mind,
They told my mother lies,
Restricted by these clamps that bind;
I hear her inward cries.

There isn’t room to shift and squirm,
Please, take that thing away.
I was made to grow full-term;
My hope you did betray.

Before I formed you in the womb,
I knew you…

There isn’t time to understand,
No time to move aside,
Save me from this glove-swathed hand;
I need a place to hide.

There’s no time to shun the tomb,
This fear has taken hold,
My heart beats strong within her womb;
I’ve never felt so cold.

I will never leave nor forsake you,
Don’t be afraid…

There isn’t time to know my name,
My face she will not see,
All I feel is Mother’s shame;
My life will never be.

There isn’t even time to cry,
All I can do is pray.
No…I do not want to die;
So please, just go away.

When you walk through the valley,
Fear no evil…

There isn’t time to hug you, Mum
Or look upon your face,
Listen to you sing or hum
And know your true embrace.

I’ll never walk upon the earth,
It’s time to say goodbye—
This wasn’t meant to be my birth,
Mother…it’s time for me to die.

I have called you by name,
Take my hand…

© Chrissy Siggee


 Haunting Wails and the Seashell  Multi-colored seashells lined the shelf in Sophie’s spare room. Her nine-year-old granddaughter, Emma, had always been fascinated by them. Each shell had its own special story. Today, Emma had asked to hear about the big shiny spotted one, which twisted and curled to a little holey point.Emma carefully lifted the shell from the shelf and sat on the bed as Sophie entered from the kitchen, wiping her wet hands on her apron. She smiled down at her granddaughter holding the shell carefully in her lap. “I suppose you want to know about this very special seashell.Where did you find it, Nana? It’s so pretty.It’s as pretty as  the beach I found it on. This shell has a sad story to tell: the memory will live forever in here. Gentle placing her hand over her heart she paused before continuing.

Poppa and I were visiting a place far from here on the west coast for a holiday, back in 1992. It was our holiday of a life time just after your mother finished college. It was a summer and the heat of the day had been comfortable but I preferred the late afternoons. We were staying at a resort village. Poppa and I spent the first few evenings walking along the cooling sand. It was the third evening of our vacation and the moon was full. We were about to head back up the beach to our bungalow when we heard a pitiful moaning. It seemed like it was coming from the ocean. The sound lingered like a haunting wail; it echoed and appeared to multiply. I have to admit, I was afraid. I’m not one to believe in ghosts, but that night I would have believed anything.

Oh, Nana, that must have been soooo scary. What did you and Poppa, do? What was it?

Sophie traced the contour of the twisted shell to the point, holding her finger in mid-air for a moment before continuing. “Well at first, we just stood there trying to work out what it was, then some of the resort staff came running down onto the beach yelling save them, save them! It was then that we realized there were black mounds rolling in the surface like huge boulders. Some were closer to us on the wet sand; water lapping around them from the incoming tide. Some of the people started running into the waves. Poppa grabbed my hand. The boulders were actually whales. Some had already beached themselves, others splashed about a little offshore where waves crashed around them.”

Tears ran down Sophie’s cheeks as she recalled the events. “People where trying to persuade them back by yelling at them. Others just stood, staring as, one by one, they beached themselves. It was an awful sight.” Nanas voice faded.

“Did they go back into the water?” Emma asked; her eyes reflecting her anguish.

“Unfortunately, most of them didn’t. I guess its part of nature. We never did find out why those whales beach themselves. We tried to help by keeping the whales wet; we even tried to encourage them back into the water.Sophie shook her head. Four days later the beach was covered in dying and dead whales; fifteen in all. I remember sitting in the shallow water beside a mother and her calf and wept for them. Poppa and I took turns taking short naps and taking time out for meals provided by the resort’s kitchen. We continued our vigil for four days the remainder of our holiday. We’ve always considered it a small sacrifice. We managed to get three back out into deep water—only three, but we were relieved we were able to help in a small way.

“Oh, Nana, this is the saddest story of all. But, where did you find the shell?”

Nana picked up the shell and blew into the small hole at the point. It made a howling sound, like the wind. She handed it back to Emma so she could have a blow and continued her story.

“About mid-morning on the last day, men with hoists came and loaded the dead whales onto the back of trucks to take them away, for burial, I suppose; we were too exhausted to ask. When they lifted the calf beside me, I noticed something lodged in the wet sand. Poppa used his hands to dig it out and held it up to look at it more closely. One of the helpers from the night before took it from Poppas hands and washed it in the seawater. He lifted it to his lips and blew it, long and loud. It sounded almost like the mournful cry we had heard the evening before. The man handed it to me and walked away, back up the beach to the resort where he worked. I’ll never forget those whales or the beach.”

Emma blew into the shell. The haunting wail lingered like the memories on the shelf.

© Chrissy Siggee