I search for sustenance
with indifference –
have difficulty navigating
the aisles of available options.
Divorced from former dreams,
I hunger for renewed inspiration,
encounter only loss and confusion.
Goddess advises, and I,
ear-closed irritated,
hear only assertions
of inadequacy.
I exit possibility,
have lost the vessel
that once propelled me.
(Linking up to Reena’s Exploration Challenge #70)
Downy blankets of white softly settle,
Nature gratefully submitting to slumber
as the Earth bids a seasonal adieu.
Inside, my body craving hibernation,
curls into layered bedding, draws shades
against the snowy scene, wills respite.
My soul, a cat, lulled by the miracle
stretches wide paws, arches, ready
to discover some mystic wilderness.
She is primordial, a snow leopard,
camouflaged, elusive, a silent stalker
instinctively hungry for nourishment.
Weakened, I yield, certain she will prey
on this near lifeless flesh, leaving me
bloodless, hide-less:Â a mere carcass.
Then I shall lay down in the frigid warmth
of winter’s illusion and surrender rotting
self to the Earth’s core; pray for rebirth.
(Soul Stalker first appeared here in January of 2016.  I am submitting it for dVerse’s prompt: Confessional poetry, hosted by HA.)
Passenger, I am –
delegated to back seat –
input seldom asked for,
even less appreciated.
I ride along.
Passenger, I am –
at best can only speculate
about direction – limited
sight lines here in the back.
I am not driving.
Had a driver once,
motivated and self-assured –
could sit back and relax –
until his mistress climbed in.
Who invited her?
Driver #2 is handsome,
but lacks directions, so
no one is paying attention.
Others ride along too.
There’s a high school dropout,
who likes to pick his parents pockets,
and get boozed up on Friday nights.
How did he get here?
Ride along, if you wish, but be warned –
this vehicle is outdated, and likely unsafe –
we’ll just have to squish together.
They don’t make ‘em like this anymore.
Oh yeah, my crazy sister is aboard too,
Or maybe it is me, ‘cause I swear
I saw the ghost of another –
bent on haunting me along the way.
Probably a good thing I’m not driving.
Night is falling, and we stop for gas,
and the neon lights remind me –
if I’ m going to make a break,
it’d best be now.
Or, I could find a new driver.
What I put God at the wheel?
What if I said: God, give me direction?
Would I have to sit up straighter and pay attention?
Would the adulteress and the sloth have to leave?
Would my vehicle become a golden chariot,
powered by horses with wings of white?
And would we fly above the obstacles,
straight to the Promised Land?
Fantasy, unfortunately –
for now, I’ll remain back here,
until life restores vitality,
and my head is clear again.
Then I’ll park this old vehicle.
And get a new model with GPS.
(I’m revisiting old posts, editing, and re-introducing some of them.  Ride Along With Me  was written in November of 2014, six months after being bedridden with ME.  It was inspired by a dream, and understandably, represents a woman who has lost everything, trying to make sense of life.  I thought it is actually quite fun, and may have a wider application, so I resubmit it here.)
The mistress, meticulously groomed
glows a sun-kissed bronze shimmery
invitation, promising seductive
sensations of pleasure and release.
The husband, tense, overworked,
emotionally overwrought
heeds the call like a sailor
following the lure of sirens.
The flirtation begins in innocence,
he sips from her splendour at a party,
tastes her bittersweetness and
feels himself losing all control.
She is a master, a pupeteer
mesmerizing him with her smooth,
easy ways – lulling him into compliance
and alone; for private indulgence.
The wife, tired, lies awake
the empty space beside her
echoing the hollow place within-
she no longer holds his desire.
Spent and reeking from his illicit encounter,
the husband stumbles into bed,
reassuringly reaching for his wife in the dark.
Unresponsive, she feigns sleep.
They’ll not speak of it tomorrow-
awake and re-engage in the routine they call life.
Not tonight, he’ll tell himself,
Not tonight, she’ll hope.
The mistress sits smugly in waiting,
a never ending supply of liquid gold,
bottled with a promise – subliminally
conditioned to bring personal gain.
(Gains and Losses first appeared here in December of 2014.  As a child of alcoholism, the Christmas season is always a reminder of the pain.  Some gains are just not worth the cost.  If you or someone you love has a problem with addiction, please make it a resolution to seek help.  There is so much more to life.)
A river of people move
motivated by preservation,
hands tightly grasping hands,
a prayer for union in the midst
of unfathomable hardship –
they sacrifice for a promise
of safety, a chance to ensure
a productive life, hope.
Politicians stand on the banks
Casting stone-words, clouding
the surface of intent, distorting
agendas, interpretations –
ripples of fear collide, peak,
crescendo on the backs
of the river walkers.
Who will free the damn
that blocks the flow,
and who will lose their lives
when verbal flooding
turns to red tides?
(Originally written for Story Circle Network’s e-circle. Â Submitted here for Ragtag Community’s prompt: ripple.)
I hold a photo of my father –
on that last Remembrance Day –
am awed by the person we never knew.
Just fifteen, he signed on,
joined ranks with an elite squad,
trained for unarmed combat.
He wears his Commando’s beret,
medals proudly adorning his breast –
symbols whose meanings are now lost.
They were the best and the brightest –
sleuthing out enemy stores, carrying
operative data to oncoming troops.
He cried that day, as candles glowed –
tears for the fallen – “Good men,”
he muttered, squeezing my hand.
A suicide mission, he’d called it,
armed with a knife and hands
of steel – a black pill if caught.
By day, he never spoke of war,
at night, he screamed in terror.
Why such a mission? I asked.
He’d had his own secret cause –
a war waging within him –Â
bent on eradicating a tragic flaw.
War made my father – a disciplined,
regimented man of iron, intimidating,
fearless – machismo at its best.
He returned a hero, celebrated
with his hometown, and left again –
the lie still burning within him.
Father was a valiant soldier –
counted himself privileged
to serve beside the honourable.
At fifteen, a girl whose body
belied her existence, enlisted
in a fight to become a man.
(The original version of In Remembrance appeared November 11, 2015. Â I resubmit it here, edited, for my weekly challenge: sacrifice. Â My father sacrificed his life during the war, and then went on to sacrifice his true identity for the rest of his years. November 11th is Remembrance Day in Canada, a time to honour those who fought for our freedom. )
Purpose –
much coveted,
despair-driven –
has returned.
Energy –
motivation
to proceed –
building.
Willingness –
once vibrant,
now constrained –
resists.
Chasms –
loss created,
unparalleled –
defy bridges.
Purpose –
discovery born,
enthusiastic –
persists.
Rock solid,
biding time,
fixated on
a future
born of
movement.
Frozen –
iced snapshots
of possibility,
immobilized by
misperceptions
Role-playing
expectations
carved from
generations
of staging.
One falters
all tumble,
lives shatter,
sink, lies
bottom out
sediment
disintegrates,
settles –
strength emerges
resurrecting
rock by rock,
precarious at first,
then gradually
re-building,
balance restored.
(Submitted for Willow Poetry’s challenge: Â What Do You See, based on featured image.)
Somewhere, searchers are combing through rubble
to find signs of life, or remains, while I fret over the
size of my belly, bloated by excess, filled by gluttony.
Somewhere, a mother pleas for the return of her child,
a daughter stolen, held by authority, while another cries
because her toddler’s coiffed appearance fails to win.
Somewhere, their village destroyed by war, families
flee to find peace, encounter rejection, and worse,
while a son murders his sister to honour family pride.
Somewhere, parents wait with terror-seized hearts
as a gun-wielding lunatic holds their children hostage,
while businessman fatten their wallets over arms sales.
Perspective tells me that I am unjustified to complain
over my first world problems, am selfish to bemoan
the trivialities of my self-centered existence, that I just
need to shift my viewpoint, look outside myself, and see
that inequalities and hardships beg for my compassion,
alter my focus and become a beacon for the world; and,
yet, I am overwhelmed by the tragedy that floods my
large screen TV, desensitized by the staged and unstaged
images of brutality, tired of the unsubstantiated claims
of terrorism, and the political garnering for votes; cannot
bear to hear of one more gun attack in a country where
the right to bear arms is confused with personal security;
feel out of control when I listen to stories of great loss,
am compelled to shut off the media, turn my attention to
self-criticism, and find a manageable issue close to home.
(Tonight is Open Link Night at dVerse. Â I am also linking this up with One Woman’s Quest II weekly challenge: attention. Â “It’s Not That I Don’t See” first appeared September 2016.)
The force that corrupts
also invokes – strength rising –
a warrior’s shield.
(Written for What Do You See, and Ronovan Writes Haiku challenge: Â steam (force) & cover (shield). )
One Woman's Quest 