Month: July 2018

Laundry Day

Not much of a gardener,
but seems I’m adept
at growing dirty clothes –
the shirt I planted
Monday, having now
sprouted many offshoots,
the fruit heavy and pungent
overflowing the hamper,
begging to be picked.

Nothing golden
about this skill however,
more melancholy than
rewarding, the hours
dedicated to folding
and putting away
akin to self-castigation –
only temporarily satisfying.

Suppose I can’t complain;
a day’s toil has merit
and even if the harvest
reaps no foodstuffs
nor the fragrance
of fresh cut flowers,
I am at very least
assured to be presentable
should going out be an option.
(Inspired by this day’s chore and the daily prompts of Fandango:  melancholy, Ragtag Community: gold, and Daily Addictions: dedicate.  Thanks for dropping by.)

Gratitude for dVerse

This current disconnect leaves me toe-tapping restless;
see, disease has commandeered my operating system,
and it’d be safe to say, if my body was an elevator
then it never really reaches any floor, and the state
of my alignment leaves me stumbling and ungrounded.
So staying put and writing is about the best I can do –
dVerse that makes me awfully appreciative of you!

(dVerse is celebrating 7 years with a call for a septet – a poem of 7 lines, or stanzas of 7 lines. Check them out!)

Artist’s Calling

Spirits dwell
in unlikely places,
speak to us
through lenses
their essence
embodied in
child-like faces,
or animal snarls,
begging to be freed.

I am shamed
by my awareness,
helpless to intervene,
have not perpetrated
the original sin –
guilty by DNA,
lineage tracing back
to the slaughterers,
those who ravished
land and Peoples,
disregarded the elementals
who once breathed life
into this sacred place.

How is it then
that I should capture
the tortured?
Is this merely projection
of an internal demon,
or am I being called
as witness,
my hand poised
to illuminate,
give voice
in service to
the suppressed
and violated?
Is this not,
after all,
the artist’s call?

(The image that inspired this poem was taken on the Kettle & Stony Point Reserve on the shores of Lake Huron. Can you see the face?)

Enough

Whatever you do
give it 110%

Father’s words
whirl,
confuse,
belittle

ambiguous, at best,
attainment remote

I am not enough

Good, better, best,
never let them rest…

morning chant –
eggs and bacon,
(seldom acceptable)
served up
by an ever-inadequate
mother,

Father’s criticism
whipping,
cruel

I will never be enough

apologize before beginning
a wallflower
on the social scene
a plebe
in the working world

presence hesitant
accomplishment tentative

Winners never quit and
quitters never win

blood boils
silently
I scream

Till I cannot bear one more
extempore lecture
face my foe
square on

catch a glimpse
of what?…
self-doubt?
fear?

These tirades
are not personal
it is not my ineptitude
at stake

merely the railings
of a tortured soul
trying to find
solid footing
on unsteady ground

I am learning to be enough.

(V.J.’s weekly challenge is accomplishment.  I’ve been pondering why it is so difficult to feel as if I’ve accomplished anything, when logically I know I have.  The daily prompts helped me to put this in context.  Thanks for Fandango for ambiguous, Ragtag Community for extempore, Daily Addictions for remote.)

Two-Storied

A two-story, red brick
set on the edge of town
was our castle, tall cedars,
like a moat, separating us
from unwanted onlookers

Strategically placed intercoms
tracked our movements, and
walls that moved revealed
forbidden spaces – passageways
that led to covert rooms

Our King was not benevolent,
and nor was our mother his queen –
for the woman he worshipped,
who held his heart’s throne,
dwelt in the shadows, and reigned.

Elizabeth, she was, regal
and bejeweled, long white gloves
brandishing a silver holder,
red lips blowing rings of seduction,
her presence a disquieting menace

She would not stir from our fortress
and none of us would speak of her
lest our kingdom might crumble
Our castle was two-storied: one
a man’s the other his alter ego.

(Written for Laura’s Manic Mondays 3-way prompt:  castle)

 

Adrift

We sail, determined,
and yet, the destination
is not of our choosing,
charted by memories
and the inadequacy
of words, language
faltering in foreign
depths.

We are islands,
formed out of
convenience

afraid to open
our foundational hatch,
face the illicit truth,
unwilling to examine
the precariousness
of our plot,
unable to pay
the price,

prefer the buoyant
arrogance
of pretence,

faith relying on
the ungrounded
swell of the ocean
to rebirth us.

(Inspired by a dream and written to conform to the daily prompts of Fandango:  memory, Ragtag Community: open, and Daily Addictions: convenience.  Thanks all for the fuel.  Photo from personal collection.)

 

Rage as Catalyst

This rage –
this storm,
waves crashing
against walls
impenetrable

I am ice,
unforgiving,
unrepentant,
wounded

thrashing
against a beast
unwittingly
played by you

We freeze.

I’ve come undone;
you are battered.
It is irreparable
absolute

until one of us
shifts, and fear
surges, unleashing
tears

and transformation.

Losing Direction

Certain, are we,
of the direction chosen,
authoritative in our drive…

yet, impulsivity rides along
and our assets are but plastic,

and these dreams of ours
are they even realistic?

Oh how adversity casts aspersions;
how easily plans crumble

focus deteriorates, threatens
to abandon, desire takes a back seat
to the dictates of old agendas…

we revert, wait for endings –
certain closure will refuel purpose…

and fret: is resolution even possible?
and is it necessary

or can we reload,
set course anew,

let faith keep us afloat?

(Inspired by a dream and written for Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing prompt #63: crumble, which challenges us to write a composition in 88 words.)