aging – Page 32 – One Woman's Quest

Meaning of Life, Anyone?

If I could, I would ask the dead
about the secrets of life, raise
spirits to help me understand
this phenomena of cancer, the
need to find relief in addictions,
the key to successful relations.

Or perhaps It is the youth, set
on creating the next YouTube
sensation, who have insights
I should pay attention to, but
they seem to prefer contrived
reality, ignoring mundane life.

Asking the heads of education
what the guiding principles are
for living a good life seems use-
less; they are too buried beneath
the red tape of bureaucracy, out
of touch with front line teaching.

I might ask new immigrants who
carry with them an accented
authority and certainty about the
meaning of life that I have not
considered – their faith and hope
badges of courage that betray
our lack of social cohesiveness.

I feel compelled to investigate
why this hard-working, caring
soul has sold herself three times
for love and continues to come up
victim; is it an insatiable need
for attention or lack of willingness
to let go of the past and just be?

(Image: btloc.com)

Haunted Corners

There’s a place, at the intersection
of break downs and choices ahead,
where I have ownership, but avoid.

Courage resides there, and other
parts of self unnamed – I haunt
the place by night, intrigued by

the camaraderie, lack the guts
to venture into the unknown –
decidedly a criminal element;

need a sense of adventure to aid
escape, squeeze me past seedy,
neglected, cracked pane spaces;

lack wheels, coordinates confused –
am located who knows where –
war for independence my identifier.

In daylight, I am redeemed, visited
by semblances of normalcy, sweet
offerings of obligation, distraction;

revel in youth’s exuberance, pretend
that gifts of kindness sustain me,
ignore the relentlessness of corners.

Calm Yourself, Woman

Circumstances shift –
breath the fertile air –
let dreams fly, expand,

embrace change – hope
now winged, an explorer
bursting with possibility.

I would move this old
body, relocate to new
beginnings, be reborn

but for these internal
trappings – begging for
extermination – retro

shaded memories –
long past expiration –
skewed accessibilty,

stretched without purpose,
reconfiguration required –
history a real estate, I need

to unload; who will buy
a drama-laden, single
story alcoholic’s haunt?

Circumstances shift –
sniff the fertile air –
guard forbidden dreams

change, like wings, unfolds
in its own time; be patient,
possibility is taking flight.

(Image from: vijaycool.wordpress.com)

Re-Purposing the Garage

It’s complicated, really, but so much
is defined by the presence of a garage.

Here is a stand-alone, connected by
a breezeway, single-car with storage;

could have been so much more –
had planned for it, but life changes.

Once had an oversized garage, direct
access, housed two vehicles, custom

built, but the cars are gone now, and
the single stands vacant, like my mind.

Except, the other day, I swore I glimpsed
an animal there, perched on the shelving

fierce, cat-like eyes caught in the dim
light of the open doorway, a tigress,

body crouched, poised to strike, backed
away, convinced it was a hallucination,

but then there she was again, clawing
at my imagination, piercing my senses;

I tended to the bleeding, chastising my
foolishness – of course she wasn’t real –

I lost my feminine prowess long ago,
am more of a groundhog now – slow

moving, podgy, sniffing the air for hints
of change, burrowing in face of trouble,

more a scrounger than a dweller, prefer
underground to domesticated storage.

A family lived here once: a tightly knit
portrait of three, lulled by the protection

offered – no storms to weather, just
sheltered transitions until the husband

left, daughter in tow; ducked beneath
the closing of the automated door –

left me, trapped under the layers of
debris, choking on their fumes, a flea-

bitten heap of a woman, homeless,
buried in a mound of bitter regrets;

almost missed her existence, except
for those grasping, white-knuckled

fingers emerging from the heap,
pleading for rescue, begging for

revival; I would shoulder her, one
more responsibility burdening

progress, shuddered to host such
destruction within my walls, would

have tended to her suffering more
promptly had not my daughter’s

malingering, suspiciously bent on
thievery, robbed me of equilibrium –

this state of heightened vigilance
a cause for neglecting self – have

humoured too many who would take
advantage of me, cannot trust my own

instincts, am disillusioned, no longer
content with inconsistencies, need to

confront the condition of my garage,
clean out the accumulation of stored

nonessentials; maybe hold a sale,
whitewash the interior and buy a car.

(Feature image from: maiko-girl.deviantart.com)

House of Horrors

If life is an amusement park,
then I, the wary visitor, purse
clutched to body, peer about
anxiously, rattled by crowds;

an overprotective parent,
herding my delighted flock,
reigning in wandering feet,
responsibility a stern cloud.

Childlike minds thrive under
blinding lights, the violence
of sounds, smells of cotton
candy sweetness: promises

of thrills, will lead me into
House of Horrors, where I,
lungs burning, heart dying
will plead for escape, run,

abandoning my charges
unable to separate fiction
from lived terror, reveal
my weakness, collapse

while the children, bent
on adventure will thrive
unphased by implications
of real life carnival rides.

Carnival Living

Temporarily positioned
in a 24-hour carnival,
gambling on progress;

sleeping with delusion –
yet another attempt to
secure intimacy missed –

wheelchair accessible
only if accompanied,
a woman out of time,

anxiously dreaming of
a room lit joyously with
the surprise of pairing –

instead disoriented, I
seek guidance, am re-
routed, willingly accept

balance, emotional
stability suffice, I am
unfinished business

attempting to move on
memory not working –
a classic submersion

dulled by immobility
desire packaged, laid
down, sliding into panic,

self abandoned in favour
of a prophecy of denial –
this 24-hour carnival life.

(image from http://www.listzblog.com)

The Character of Old Houses

Old houses exude charm,
walls whispering nostalgic
wonder, eliciting yearnings
buried deep within the soul.

Purchasers are spellbound,
transported to simpler times,
read mystical forecasts in
archways and carved nooks.

Committed, they settle in,
noting too late cosmetic
fixes, startled to uncover
structural faults, despair

to learn that the dreams
which built this place have
now crumbled and cracked,
repairs needed extensive.

Overhauling beyond means –
physically and financially –
old houses not only offer,
but test, character – beware.

(Image from thisoldhouse.com)

(Un)Staged

So much rides on adherence to script –
carefully mapped out movements and
lines delivered with precise intonation.

Creativity stuffed into memorized
passages, rehearsed roles, timing
contrived for optimum reactions.

It’s all about the audience, approval,
the importance of positive acclaim,
aiming for that encore performance.

My soul is an improviser –
loathes conventionality,
fears stagnation,
disrupts routine scenarios
with flashes of spicy wit;

thrives on the unexpected,
fueled by gasps, or ohs, or titter,
ignores the pandemonium
as fellow players scramble
to find their cues,
fall in line.

A trickster-spirit
arrogantly hogging the stage
deliberately sabotaging
prescribed protocols;
chastised.

I am contrite, beg forgiveness,
swear to behave in character,
follow predetermined dialogue.

Curtain is set to rise on Act II;
pressure mounting; conformity
threatens to strangle my soul:

panic sets in –
I am not prepared,
have not committed to memory
this role I’ve been assigned –
am certain to disappoint,
again.

Arachnophobia

Creativity –
eight-legged predator –
invades the decks
of my listing mind,
reproducing rapidly.

Her generous,
bejewelled appendages
skittering beneath
my plastic-boned
Caucasian frailty.

I hesitate –
friend or foe?
Should I trample
crush this invasion,
or surrender…
risk madness?

We are ocean –
bound, shoreless
prefer interior spaces
wary of open vistas
equally vulnerable
collapsible

Skittish
evaders
intent on
escape
future
uncertain…

I flee
creativity’s
lair – enter
into darker
passages

Destiny –
creativity’s cousin –
awaits, tail raised
in venomous arc –
dances a warning
does not
strike

body
glowing
phosphorus
green,
melts into
swirling,
flourescent
particles of
Kundalini
rising.

(Image: fineartamerica.com)

These are Warriors

Younger women than I
are giving birth, unaware
of indifference; joyous
expectancy blotting out
smells of disinfectant,
and decay – I am invisible
to them, my daughters.

Babies they are, bringing
forth life, unripened souls,
hopeful, ignorant, unaware
that I know what violations
have planted the seeds, am
no stranger to the cruelties
of humanity, my sisters.

I may be unknown here,
but neglect is universal –
it’s brutality unremarkable –
am praying for miracles,
while the world spins, lives
losing control, and all I can
do is stand witness, Mother.

(Photo credit: Huffington Post)