aging – Page 29 – One Woman's Quest

Losing Language

hardwood…
it rolls off my tongue
stops in mid-air, mind halting
Is that a real word?
I stretch for familiarity,
find none – I apologize
quizzical expressions
indicate my mistake –
such a funny word,
I fumble for explanation
humiliation crowding

How do you spell resile?
my English teacher brain
searches, comes up empty
Do you mean reconcile?
No. So I google it
discover its validity
spell it out –
can’t say I ever knew the word

thicket, I type
and then back space –
need a term to describe
prickly shrubbery, off
the beaten path, but
it eludes me, the letters
line up but fail to evoke
recognition. why

is my mind turning,
blank spaces replacing
stored knowledge, as if
corruption has overtaken
memory’s files – thoughts
sputter, drop beginnings
and endings of words –
dragging me through muddy
fog, shutting me down…

(Note: for those that don’t know me,
I am challenged by ME/CFS, a disease
that affects cognitive functioning.
Writing is a way for me to battle
the deterioration – this poem
illustrates the frustration.

Image: pixelmuttz.blogspot.com)

Young Woman, I See

Young woman, I see your pain
remember a time when I too
struggled for autonomy, purpose

Wish that I could reach across
the span of generations, mirror
the beauty that I see, release

the tangle of deception that binds
you, facilitate your potential, help
advance your journey, lift you

beyond the clutter and noise
and deliver you to freedom, but
your book has not been written

and the chapters need to unfold
as they will, and I am no deity
who sees with clarity the path

you must choose, the destiny
that calls you: trust that life
is educational, and you bear

the resources to see your way
through, celebrate your hunger
and rejoice in your triumphs

I will watch with nostalgia
and the pride of recognition,
for your giftedness is real

your optimism a worthy tool,
and I know you will succeed;
have faith in your tomorrows

for you were born to shine
and pages of your memoir
await experience’s depths.

(Image: digitalsynopsis.com)

Marital Dance

We converse in actions,
words inaccessible –
have not been schooled
in dialogues for two.

His clutter spreads,
pronounce’s a kingly
presence, commands
attention, oppresses.

I clean with insistence,
shuffle papers, wipe up
crumbs, assert my right
to co-exist, belittle him.

Once we studied dance;
he learning to lead, I
to follow signals – the art
is lost on us now, our steps

more interference, blocking
an inconvenience, not
a strategy, we are rhythmless
avoidance more tolerable

than the effort it takes to tango.
How did language fail us?
experts now at skirting
delicate issues, retreat before

we speak, pray time will serve
absolve the problem, but only
distance grows in silent cracks
and we converse in actions.

(Image: source unknown)

A Wounded Pair

Depression desires a move –
maybe east, where the sun rises
and views are more picturesque

but espoused to Disability ensures
limitations – no multi-level dwelling
just a single story, easy access home

Surely, there is a place, where both
tales can co-exist, and Depression’s
suppressed flamboyance can soar

and Disability’s plentiful talent
can escape the darkened confines
of four dimly lit walls, be witnessed

She is actress and he is victim, and
a fresh start is required – ownership
that’s less costly – discovery a possibility

gorgeous, inebriating abundance –
a foundation of hope – no more
lowering themselves to circumstance

Yet, both are married to responsibility,
clutch it with terror, personal cravings
a menace – store their dreams in boxes

basement buried – the family home
a weighty treasure – ignore the niggling
call to downsize – prefer to embrace

their fateful fortunes with loyalty –
a wounded pair, reluctant to let go
fear an insurmountable barricade.
(Image: skydancingblog.com)

Whale Dreams

(Note: Messages from the dreamtime inspire much of my poetry, and as an experiment, I decided to revisit an old dream, from May 2013, and see what new insights it might deliver. The original posting, entitled “Whale Dreaming”, can be viewed here. )

Exposed we are, voyageurs,
crossing a great expanse –
one tiny vessel bearing
the weight of our lives,
two oars to navigate

Unknown depths below
and shadows, murky –
we push on. Row. Row.
sights set on new land
uncharted possibilities

a shape emerges –
great hulking mass
of being, parting waters
rising and transforming
a caricature of our fear

I am mesmerized, read
divinity’s presence, he
shrugs, pragmatically
notes the St. Lawrence
is home to such mammals

I dream of whales, crave
communion, project
mystical wisdom, equate
size with spirit, marvel
at potential connections

Just as I wait for a sign
from the departed, inviting
a simpler life, inspiring hope –
a shore life from which
I can observe the numinous.

Retirement

Sought-out careers stagnant
communication with colleagues
soaked with commitments –
underlying imposed courtesy

we are doubly dependent –
mutual caregivers supporting
water treading, our authority
drowning in preset obligations

Past dwellings, connections
sopped with history, hold on –
leftover dregs, stale-dated –
their validity disappearing,

We are overcoming, debriefing,
navigating release, minimilizing
plan to alter direction, trade
accommodations, rest willingly

have boarded sanctity – a timely
cubicle of release, slotting an exit,
having transformed belonging –
are wrung out seeking drier ground.

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)

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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Bit Player

Have landed –
actually, volunteered for –
a supporting role

intended fun, but
comedy eluded,
am fighting for a life

fearful choreography
exacting a cathartic script
haywire admission of fault

my memory fails
positions me, in brief
spurts, faltering

co-performers push
encourage, emanate
loving commitment

buy into mania
my cause: avoidance
beyond distraction

I miss crucial lines
am unlatched
trailing off

self-punish
repeated regression
amends scripted

such a production
ignoring undefined
hunger, knowledge

contracted,
blossoming role
forgettable

like Shakespeare
manufacturing
good-hearted bits

staging a performance
detailing elements
turning points

obligated to a
co-dependent audience
willing to settle

no acts define scenes
no exit for escape
stage door revolves

and I’ve landed –
no, volunteered for
a secondary role.

(Image from pinterest.com)

Babysitting

eyes wide with wonderment
fix on me, beseeching attention

rosebud lips part in genuine glee
when my coveted gaze meets hers

she tilts her peach fuzz head and
with a shrug of a shoulder expresses

a learned coyness, a treasured cuteness,
softening this old woman’s jaded edges

clumsy, chubby fingers reach, fumble,
eventually grasp their target, instinctively

raised to mouth, pink fleshy tongue
ready to explore – my aged hands

reacting, reflexes set to protect,
shelter inexperience, purity

I am awed by her perfection –
innocence flanked by innate trust

what do I have to teach this precious soul
whose joy of life, untarnished, mocks

my own brand of cynicism, my words
painted with such bias as to destruct

not encourage the fearlessness she displays
eager arms reach for mine, seeking support

unskilled legs desperate to gain a stride
wobble, infantile toes slightly curled

she leads me to the staircase, pridefully
demonstrates how she’s learning to climb

fear fogs my appreciation, having known
the pain of many falls, I reluctantly follow

admire her determination, the patience
it takes to build such dexterity, a resilience

I could learn from, wonder which of us
has more to offer the other, and then

she is done with the exercise, desires to
descend, has no idea how to proceed, and I

happy to oblige, guide her with the proficiency
of someone artful in the act of backing down.