I navigate sharp twists,
confront rough trails,
steep slopes, swoon
at dizzying heights,
feel my frailty –
this path is for rugged,
mountain-born,
those accustomed
to the sheer immutable
force of  rock –
and yet, my lens
tells a different tale –
speaks of shadows
shifting, witnesses
mutations of colour
describes a giant
whose facade reflects
the day’s passing light,
demonstrates compassion
in earth’s stillness.
When it comes to caring,
I’m a pro – engaged,
wholehearted, well…
except that my toddler
self joins in, and no matter
how proper I try to act –
she is such a fetching child,
bright, inquisitive – she
distracts me from purpose,
gets me off-track, and I hate
being behind, and anxiety
acts up, and the subject of my
focus departs, leaves me solo,
abandoned like the baby,
memories of saturated diapers
unattended to, and the raw
scratch of tears unanswered,
and I’m not trained to care for
inner children, essentially
overlooked, innocence tainted.
Open to healing –
delve into the subconscious
create a space for inspiration.
Ignore limited capabilities –
no offerings are meager –
enter with pure intentions.
Embrace new starts
have faith in ability
be spurred into action.
The Self holds the answers,
creative expression is the key.
No expertise required.
(I first wrote this in August of 2015, a year and a half after being diagnosed with ME/CFS. This was likely the lowest point of my disease – it is encouraging to look back and realize how strong my spirit was back then despite my condition.)
I drag my marriage
through childhood,
past my mother’s critiques
and sister’s insanity,
expose the woman
my father longed to be,
strip them all down
and parade them
full monty,
our sordidness
splayed across the floor
like shepherd’s pie
smashed into linoleum –
a mess of madness
and emotion and
cranked out fables:
denial served up
as acceptable fare.
I am obsessed –
driven by compulsion
to cleanse the sticky,
rotting muck oozing
through the cracks
of our faulty foundation,
need to sanitize floorboards,
unearth explanations
salvage what thread
of sensibility remains
before this orgy
of dysfunction
derails progress
drags my childhood
through marriage.
How do we recognize truth
in what is reflected back to us
especially when intrinsic knowing
has been domesticated out of us –
servility replacing preservation?
We are drawn by an insatiable
thirst to drink from the well
of human connections, require
acknowledgment, appreciation,
cannot bear to conceive of a life
of loneliness – we are social,
travel in packs, affectionate
souls conditioned to co-habitate,
habits instructing outcomes –
would be lost without mirrors.
A dear soul slipped from life’s grasp this week, leaving a hole in many hearts. Diana’s words, here, say so much more than I could have, still raw with grief.
so frail now
your fingertips in mine
supported gently
parchment paper skin
venous rivers slow, tepid within
..
as the sand slowly sifts
i squeeze
i try to halt the final grains, yet
this maudlin hourglass only drains
to somber clock tick
sentry gated soldiered seconds fall
the war is over
all is lost
that is all
..
a last dawn
this last day
as curtains part
your light slips away
I am losing ground,
disinterest piling up,
suffocating – I moan
childish communication
enraged, and humiliated,
hurt; my opinion more
impulse than acceptable
relatives bitch, correct,
dethrone me – an outsider
sidling in, like a politician
mingling, lingering, attacked
why am I so dependent
on this oddball interaction?
celebration is just a formality
and my enthusiasm misplaced
but at least, I am present.
I loved him with the passion
of a child – he was the sun
and I the golden calf – a mutual
worship, trust and respect.
His words were my sustenance,
mother’s lap busy with a baby,
older sisters reluctant to embrace
a half-sister and unasked for dad.
Reassured by his promises,
bolstered by his protectiveness
I felt his loyalty, committed to
reciprocating, so when he turned
on mother – his tongue a cruel
master – I faulted her too,
guessed she must be lower
than the exalted – he and I –
but as the tirades escalated
and the promises fell empty,
the tarnish began to show,
and I shifted allegiance –
intervened against maniacal
outbursts, tried to interject
sensibility, dissuade drunken
frays, the ferocity of his heat
no long warming, crushed
our family’s equilibrium –
he disappeared to soon
into the safety of death
left me reeling in the dark,
trying to decipher the codes
of his torment, the betrayal of
a father who was once my sun.
Attending awards ceremonies
calls for muzzled comportment,
fail to appreciate the adulation
of one over many, tend to believe
these things are tainted, overblown
but this is just the ramblings of
a self-defacing personality, opinions
unacceptable in most circles, and
certainly amongst those whose scoff
at such remarks, view me as common
those who sniff at the asses of the noted
and noteworthy, as if proximity equates
with greatness, ignoring the fact that
success is achieved through hard work
and cooperation, trampling the ‘littles’
in their scramble for accolades –
it’s disparaging – am I alone in feeling
as if I’m watching an out of control
train, headed for derailment, an event
sure to elicit fame – at such a cost?
(The Daily Post prompt is tend. ))
Introducing
colour to water
offering it up
to blank pages
learning less is better
and gentle strokes
elicit blossoming results
Introducing
colour to water
breathing life into
blank spaces
offering gentleness
to blossoming creativity
reveling in the delight.
(This poem was penned for the Story Circle’s Network
e-poetry group in response to February’s prompt – treasured
moments.”
One Woman's Quest 