Tie myself to instability,
conditioned to believe
that sensibility fluctuating
with insanity is acceptable.
Insert responsibility
to compensate for
immaturity, am idle
unemployable, would
pack up and move
my ass out of this
stagnation, except
anger is brewing
as turmoil intensifies
and how far can one
really go to escape
such legacies, knowing
I will only return
to the same, better
to stay and face
the devil himself.
(Image: www.viral.us)
Child of mine,
what rage is this
that sets you against
a younger brother?
What discontent stirs
so deeply within that
you would lash out
at me, your mother?
Let us sit a moment,
and let me, with tenderness
listen, for your anger masks
pain, and I am not so far
removed from childhood
to recognize that tone.
If I have wronged you,
speak, I need to hear it;
if peers are pressuring,
or bullying, or you feel
betrayed, lay it here
in my hands, and I will
comfort you, and offer
what wisdom I have.
Your well-being is sacred
to me; let me hold you –
you’re not too old;Â linger
here in my embrace until
the tears come, and the storm
passes; I will hear your fears,
frustrations, and disappointments,
and together we will figure it out.
Child of mine,
I am here for you,
no matter the reason,
your pain is my pain,
talk to me; I am listening.
(Image: confessionsofanadoptiveparent.com)
There is comfort
in old friendships,
reminders of things
forgotten, of misguided
adventures, and the folly
of youth; and there is hope
instilled by the passage of time
and the evidence that while life
changes, some things endure, and;
it is in the comfort of old friendships
that we find strength to believe in ourselves,
and the will to penetrate lingering angst, and
embrace the possibility of a future with purpose.
(Photo is thanks to an old friend who presence in my life I continue to treasure.)
Be compassionate when leading,
encourage community,
promote vision,
invite discussion
remember that pleasing
is not always possible
and that balance
calls for give and take
that needs are real
and genuine emotion
in times of personal grief
can be a catalyst for others
beware hidden agendas
when conducting business;
help young people find
their own secret gardens
never try to be all things
for all people, instead
lend an ear, a shoulder,
a hug – be a facilitator
all is doable, when ego
is willing to sidestep accolades
in favour of a shared responsiblity
and service to the whole.
A soft-sided, well worn, briefcase
sits slouched in a closet corner,
one side agape, a red lanyard
hastily stuffed inside –
occupational identification.
A row of black, brown and gray
pumps line up beside it, a thin
layer of dust betraying idleness.
Silent, unblinking, a television
recedes into the wall, flanked
by images of smiling faces –
shadows of nostalgia.
Stacks of books and journals
rumour a once scholarly mind.
The woman, once defined
by these trivialities,
is no longer here.
She has been called to another purpose.
(The Pilgrimage was first written in December of 2014, as I came to terms with the loss of my career due to ME/CFS. Now, as we embark on a new path, I find the poem has new relevance. This version is edited from the original.)
The wind blows,
a steady beat,
disperses Texas heat
palms succumb
to the rhythm
seduce the cerulean sky,
my heart a bird in flight
Back home winds cut
squalls threaten, snow
swirls nipping children’s
cheeks, while inside
hearths glow, eyes sparkle,
an anticipation my heart
aches to behold
This year, we’ve balked
tradition, chosen sunnier
vistas, the selfishness of two
will limit our Christmas
to FaceTime chats, snapshots
of excitement; my heart torn
between bliss and guilt.
(The Daily Post prompt: torn. Image and baking by my daughter. Missing limb courtesy of a granddaughter.)
Pride hounds
sneaky, invasive
ugly determination
guards a conception
family, grandchildren,
a portrait of comfort
disregards treacherous
likeness to poisonous
histories, past loathing
offender venomous
untrustworthy, slithers
hunts, eludes detection
fleeing only abandons
face culprit, wrestle
pummel, decapitate
denial, disembowel
falsehoods, render
the serpent impotent
peace endures when
life examined marries
humility and gratitude
(Image: Pinterest)
Set me on the open road,
encourage me to cross borders;
I am hungry for knowledge,
to hear a higher calling.
Cannot tolerate chained-to-
chairs education, imposed
immobility, socratic hierarchy
demanding conformity
spoon-fed compliance –
am too much my father’s
daughter, born rebellious
unable to mold myself
to prescribed slots
would rather initiate
discussion, engage, listen –
let shoes emote, tell their
story, develop compassion
never felt more than a visitor
in institutions, marks adequate
but brain absent, spirit numbed –
more punishment for delinquency
than awakening.
How can we convey the future,
instill optimism in prospects,
when the language of education
is secondary to how students
communicate in real-time?
Minds are energetic, curiosity
a given, youth crave elevation,
opportunity, measure themselves
against a system defined by rows.
How can I cross this barrier
of disability, open the dialogue
to ignite passions, propel learning
to open road scenarios, encourage
minds to cross borders?
(Reposted from December, 2106 in response to The Daily Post prompt: calling. Teaching, I’ve always believed to be my calling – loved it passionately, until I had to give it up in 2014 due to ME/CFS)
Vacationing, she says, is vital –
wants her children to experience
game-packed adventure, excess
non-stop fun – anything to evade
this place, this longing, this subterfuge
Dreams of the spotlight of celebrity,
wealth, she thinks, would be freeing,
they’d buy location, nest in opulence,
court sanity, breakthrough the pain
this place, this longing, this subterfuge
Fame, temporary as the aurora borealis,
blinds her – cannot bear the inclusiveness
of normalcy, offspring bursting their halos,
unknowns tied to origin – escape is hope
this place, this longing, this subterfuge
She is tired of small talk, of exaggerated
tales of children’s exploits readily falling
off mothers’ tongues, women whose
vibrancy depends on husbands’ return
this place, this longing, this subterfuge
Considers herself a non-resident,
a temporary guest, consumed,
questioning – views the contest
as overly manipulated, is lost in
this place, this longing, this subterfuge.
(Image: findingjackie.com)
early morning mist lingers
draws a blanket around us
outside the birds chatter
make plans for the day
children’s soft snores
a moment of stolen bliss
I sip my tea and ponder
the sanctity of silence
(The Daily Post prompt: bliss.)
One Woman's Quest 