Silently, I follow
novice heart absent
Who can maneuver
the breathless streams
attempt a spiritual viewpoint
while continuously overwhelmed?
Urgently in need of a breakthrough
I am done, outdated
Summer’s passage conceded
this soul requires triage
An experience of caring
that does not resemble a demand for more.
(Image my own)
What light is this
illuminates the midnight clouds?
I have risen from my bed
lured by this oddness
Suspecting menace,
but finding only wonder
How the walnut radiates
her presence conspiratorial
Pine tree and brush
surely giggle at my confusion
The yard, a marvel in white
glows in the unexpected brightness
I sense, but cannot surmise
a message in this nocturnal glow
Feel only the inadequacy of my awe
and the inferiority of humble words.
(Photo captured at 1:30 am, three nights ago)
How bright is the soul
that dares to stand alone
who gives voice to injustice
who is willing to sacrifice
self for a higher purpose?
What song might we sing
if such a spirit moved us?
(Image my own)
Watching the man wander
between home and industry,
the apron of his trade firmly fixed,
a sparkle of grit in his coiffed beard
The children, too, find joy
in his space, running between
house and workshop,
dog bounding at their feet
proudly on guard.
An outsider
and sink bound
she moves by rote
tea towel slung over shoulder
maintains a distance –
the dream is not hers.
She waits
weights
pretends
denies
Is losing her edges
and the parameters he sets
keep shifting, and
she is falling short
and the children, now hungry
tug on her apron for acknowledgment –
their father having taught them well —
she lives to meet their needs.
What’s for supper? they whine,
already preparing to grouse:
I don’t like that!
You liked it last week, she’ll reply
Weary, she feels herself fading
A meal on the table
and the man drags his feet –
would not award her respect
to appear on time
She’ll abide the disarray
while counting to herself
the minutes till this is over
and the children are in bed
and the man has returned to work
and nothingness is hers…
The numbness of lacking a dream.
(Art my own)
Sloth-like she shuffles
each stride an argument
against unwilling muscles,
ignores spasms, lips pursed
in concentration, advances
Cockeyed he totters,
step…hop…step, poker-hot
stabs punctuating his effort
moves swiftly as if to out run
pain, face set in determination
They are out of sync, oddball
awkward sightseers, obstacles
for the fast-moving able-bodies
that whir past unable to fathom
motivation in crooked spines.
The race here is against time,
propelled by insatiable thirst,
they forage for snippets worthy
of hoarding, squirrels readying
for winter’s harsh call, days
when minds still alert will hunger
despite bodies inert, they will
dine on memory, boast about
the daring, reminisce fondly
over adventures hard won.
(A portrait of aging, first published in 2017. Image my own)
Following political tides –
mesmerized by neglect
of actual issues – playing
to an audience of moaners
(standard consumerist
plights) – glossing over
exploitation of women,
verbal slaughter of race,
religion and social values
Wondering about media –
who commandeer bias,
swallowing atrocities and
spewing contrived truths,
absent sound voice, or will,
jeopardizing the security
of so many trampled in
the race for what? Surely
not responsibility – what
lapse of conscience has
allowed hateful rhetoric
to bloody progress, no
consequences? Â Who will
bear the burden when in
the absence of morality
or respect for humanity,
the margins will increase?
The world quakes at the
failure to acknowledge
this broken path, see only
a devaluation of assets,
perceive a race that did
no more than increase
the monarchy of a king,
grant power to absolve
sins – a sleight-of-hand
trick – nothing to do with
the common habitants –
have so many questions
about how they’ll proceed.
(I wrote this poem in 2016. Same issue, different date. Surreal. Image my own)
Give me a map
and I will trace the lines
of where I have been
A timeline
will communicate
my raison d’être
Report cards
demonstrate the depth
of my conformity
Lines on my face
a testament
to personal efforts
Good girls colour in the lines
and I am no different
waxing orange and green
Wishing to create contours
differentiate self
from the compliance
Essence is fluid
and lines flimsy
and substance seeks
exposure and celebration
And try as I might
the orange of my soul
bleeds into blank spaces
and green of my nature
reaches across divisions
and I shall not succumb
to prescribed limits
and I invite you to do the same
colour with me outside the lines.
(Art my own)
That Covid is no more than the flu
that Climate change is a not real
that political speak is baffle
But my body, wracked with pain
knows too much about the nuances
of viral infections…this is no cold
And I’m too old to deny
that pollution has long threatened
our ecosystems and that reckless
disregard for our Earth home
has consequences
And that discernment
seems to have gone astray
in this Social Media whirl
We need to dig deeper
if we want sustainable change
I wish I could believe
that democracy is a given-
forget the wars and sacrifices
it took to get us here-
look away while it slips….
I wish I could have faith
that God had a hand in all this
but I can’t shake the feeling
that ignorance is bliss
and I know too much
(Image my own)
Can we acknowledge the richness of our resources:
that which sustains and endures? Always looking for the next shiny thing,
craving the exotic, the surprising… pushing purpose, movement… toward what? Telling ourselves we want lifelong commitment, and then moving on… emotions depleted. How do we define standards, intuit and reassemble a frame, counsel a collective, when expectations, creeping and woven into consciousness, resemble oppression? Hope -as sold by patriarchal mindsets, striving to mutilate common sense – is useless to revive when society teaches us to blindly follow the unintelligible…
Full moon a warning –
reverence for mystery
not conspiracy
Society’s light
waning on the back of lies-
hopelessness surreal
Hate is born from fear
disinformation a tool –
We are being played.
Step back! Cautions moon
observe under a new light –
reconnect with love.
(This poem, derived from a dream, started as a haibun – prose followed by a haiku – but the haiku multiplied. Guess we will call it a variation on a haibun. Image my own.)
Two-tongued –
speaking both heart and mind –
complex languages
whose nuances
I’ve never quite mastered,
yet believe myself
to be conversant in.
It’s a constant learning
to nail enunciation –
linguistics a tiresome topic
the mind –
a guttural dialect –
leans towards equation
and absolutes –
hard consonants and long vowels
while heart-speak
rolls off the tongue –
soft, cooing syllables,
elongated tones, and
whimsical passages
I’d happily demonstrate
the extent of my proficiency
but the two tongues
are currently contradictory –
the clamour of their discord
drowning out the peace
requisite for translation.
(A fun piece I originally wrote in 2018. Edited for this version. Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 