VJ – Page 173 – One Woman's Quest

Colouring Lessons

Favourite colour?
Black, says she
without hesitation;

I falter, stumble
mind reaching –
who likes black?

Is that a colour?
It’s all colours,
she’s nonchalant

intent on task –
carefully keeping
within the lines

Of course it is,
ill equipped am I
to disagree, images

of dark somber
corners, sorrow
and death crows –

Why black? ask I –
composure forced –
had anticipated pink

equate childhood
with primary shades
splotches of yellow

and rainbow skies
candy red apples
on lollipop trees

but black? no –
black obliterates,
negates, destroys

It holds the colour
inside, she explains;
It’s the outline.

Not annihilation –
order; her mind
conceives of order

so much to learn
from innocence
have long forgotten

the art of staying,
within lines, finding
good in all things.

(Image: www.siparent.com)

They’re Just Family, After All

Performing this at my third open mic tonight, in honour of my dear friend Nadine who will not be able to attend. I know she loves this piece.

One Woman's Quest

In anticipation of guests,
the hostess – always bent
on pleasing – carefully selects
the script, ascribes roles,
envisions an afternoon
of light repartee, peppered
with philosophical pondering –
satisfactory entertainment.

They’re just family, after all,
she tells herself, confident
in the outcome, fatally smug.

Crowd arriving, she fails
to read disinterest in the eyes,
politely attempts to orchestrate
interactions, while they cast about,
calculating, shunning protocols
of etiquette, dispersing in
an unsettling way, then returning,
savagely encircling their prey.

They’re just family, after all,
she tells herself, panic rising,
confusion overriding confidence.

Unprepared to defend herself –
bears no arms but the giving type –
she ducks, grasps, attempts
retreat from the onslaught
of vindictive agendas, but the wall
of stored grievances, spotlighting
a history of injustices, corners
her, hopelessness in its wake.

They’re just family, after all,
she tells herself, knowing
full well the legacy of pain.

It…

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Absence

A year ago, my husband was in hospital, having suffered a heart attack and awaiting bypass surgery. I wrote this in his absence. ( Image from http://www.meredithtowbin.com)

One Woman's Quest

Slippers, perched at night stand,
twitching impatiently,
mark the absence of feet,
cannot appreciate the meaning
of unruffled bed covers.

Abandoned, a coffee mug
bemoans its curdling contents,
complains of thick brown lines
contaminating its porcelain shine,
has not noted absence of hands.

Chair, pushed back from desk,
in partial rotation, sits awkwardly,
commanding attention, disturbed
by its misalignment, has not thought
to ponder absence of body.

House, uncomfortable with silence
creaks unnaturally, loudly voicing
objections to the absence of footfalls,
automated machinery and incessant
rings, beeps, and chimes of technology.

I try to reassure them that the absence
is only temporary, that the man whose
presence so strikingly fills this space
will return, hope they cannot read
the apprehension in my tremulous heart.

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A Bee’s Perspective

(Note: I draw much of my inspiration from dreams, and recently I’ve been challenging myself to write prose as well as poetry. This poem and the piece, The Vortex, are inspired by the same dream.)

A bee, caught
in a violent draught,
collides with woman

her body a salty
concrete wall
of frenzy, she is rigid,
obsessed, unspoken rage

emanating from her pores –
a gale force spiral, woman-made
vortex threatening the sanctity
of her contrived domesticity

Normally, she would swat at him –
is aware of the potential for venom
delivered via puncture – cannot pull
herself out of the vacuum of fixation

eyes riveted, hands locked on video
controls, breath shallow, heart pounding
a rabid diatribe of self – loathing:

useless woman,
irresponsible,
neglectful,
unworthy,
guilty,
fat

with each beat the tempest grows
perceptibly, the bee breaks free,
encircles the figure of a lone man
bent over a fragrant cup of brew,
is dismissed by a distracted swat

lazily careens upward, buzzing
past a sleeping child, and settling
on a sweet sticky cheek, startling
its owner, who lashes out then rises

unsteady legs toddling in search
of Momma! , the whine a catalyst,
piercing his mother’s mania –
her instincts now cat-like, body

pouncing past the insolent insect,
arms reaching towards pudgy limbs
thrusting forward into loosely
attached guard rails, now plunging

the bee surveilles the scene –
a final circuitous flight before
finding escape, the drone of his wings
a testament to the glory of being a bee.

(Image: www.flickr.com)

Solitudes

Solitude, I dream
of expansive landscapes,
crave your panoramic
silence, thrill to the ideal
of your boundless sanctity

Solitude, you wrap me
in separateness, strip away
my cardboard walls, tear
at the corners of my instability;
no refuge from the stillness

Solitude, I am smothered
by your starkness, by my
starkness, cries of madness
reverberating through vast
canyons of aloneness.

(Image: serendipityteam.wordpress.com)

The Same, But Broken (Take 2)

(Note: I am revisiting old posts, trashing the unimpressive, and where possible, editing. This is an edited version of an earlier poem. Visit the original here.)

Pervasive fragility
blindsides – reduced
to stretched and torn
fibers – I teeter, mind

obsessed, overwhelmed
I am weeping…and not,
frustrated by impossibility
unwilling to face loss –

cannot let go – life passes
regards me with disgust/
indifference/ repulsion,
I am dispensable, invalid

raw, enraged, strength
obliterated, courage gone,
just a soul, stripped of life
craving meaningful existence.

Bureaucratic Dystopia

Bureaucratic automatons
privy to personal dilemmas
fuss over delegated tasks –
vessels sans initiative –

policy makers overriding
common sense,
common decency
paper pushers passing
verdicts condemning

downtrodden, unable to fight
whose day-to-day living –
questionable at best –
lacks the necessary survival

guide – procedural forms
dehumanize suffering,
cubby-holed egos void
support, icily authoritative

dystopia is no future construct
no fantastical presupposing
for those trapped in the maniacal
system of disability claims.

(Image: threatquality.com)

Specimens

Dressed in our finest personas
we submit to public scrutiny,
polish our performances, risk
criticism to achieve the prize

Practice behind the scenes
preparing lists and scripts,
questioning qualifications,
comparisons deflating egos

Yet we succumb to pressure
step into the spotlight, react
emotions and insecurities
demolishing golden intentions

We scramble for our lines,
to maintain integrity, curse
our folly, our vulnerability
slaves to external editors

Competition eradicates value
of black and white resumes
survival of the fittest presides
we race to stay in the running

traces of authenticity discarded
like unwanted footage, spliced
realities catering to contrived
standards: a social experiment.

(Image: http://www.pinterest.com)

Nested

Nestled in with childhood truths –
second-hand, missing perspective –
nursing a creeping creativity:
insignificant clarity expanding
measurably, hurried.

Once social, now retreating
papered over failure, have fallen
frigid waves infiltrating, overtaking
chronically pained, over and over
contemplating flight, freedom

voiceless, expressionless, flat
even revelation muted, unmoving
boundaries, discussed, protective
currently crumbling…underestimated
the struggle, the pervasiveness

have considered a military approach
strident restrictions to nullify passions
but I am a weaver, open to uncovering
blessings in failure, employed in soaring,
grounded, yet questing, unsettled

disease is not a repellent for the mind,
objects conjure movement, creatures
undoubtedly defensive, renewal motivated
I am dank, moist, lacking burning passion
in this explosive personal nest.

Insatiable

He caved eventually
gave in to her nagging
left his wife, his children,
mistook her naked willingness
for love, a signal of commitment –
it was not – she would not package

her feelings into a domestic box
had no intentions of ever after
clothed her vulnerability in sex

as treacherous as Eve’s serpent
she seduced him, and once ensnared
spit him out with venomous joy

watched him squirm with regrets
his life shattered, heart ravaged
unable to break away, even as

she courted her next victim
twisting her bladed hold on him
he remained, convinced

he somehow deserved this –
had penance to pay, vowed to
make it up to her, could not

shake the depth of his desire
sacrificed himself wittingly
to her insatiable blood lust.