Some say I’m away – spun
out of control: the dissolution
of so many years of denial.
With restlessness I circle
male species, perspective
skewed by parental fray;
have sweetness to offer,
ripeness – opposition’s grip
extinguishing marketability
we are all crazy, our seasons
passed, preferring the nests
we’ve built to new family ties
fear we will be forgotten, solo,
too self-centered to recognize
independence as exclusivity.
No more out-on-the-town bustles –
the late afternoon light fading in
my corner – focus now turned to
higher issues; try to keep company
with mindfulness – a worthy educator,
facilitating release – but my inventory
is too spun. Achieving a semblance
of completion, something to reflect
my life’s toil, would be welcome, yet
I fear my story is cooked. Guidance
might suggest I’m not alone, but
without my professional footing
I’m at a loss for identity, prodding
to find answers – a woman without
substance, grasping at what is mine.
Seems silly to think that breathing
might offer consolation for this no-
return-on-investment outcome; have
hit a wall, would rage if not numb, so
many parts of self lost in passage…
Midnight approaches and I am tapped
out – a social passenger hitching a ride
on hopelessness – flat broke, empty
(tried to dial up creativity – wrong#)
Contemplate sorrow, luck, temporary
breakdown’s, orchestrated scenes,
a lifelong inability to keep quiet (sorry
kids), a callous bitch – could never get
her to work in my corner, channel that
energy into fitness or financial success –
she just likes to stir things up, doesn’t
believe in peace of mind, jolts me awake
out of my comfort zone. Â Maybe I need
her now – forgo relaxation and surrender –
to shake this inactivity, give a hand up
to those repressed, forgotten selves –
get her to lift me out this self-conscious
mire – she doesn’t care about feelings –
markets herself with confidence, breathes
assertiveness, knows her own business…
can you see me sitting up a little straighter,
composing myself in the light of this new
possibility, readying myself to relaunch –
reconsidering my stance on corners?
There’s remodelling to be done here –
and orienting to the new will take a bit,
given my age, but I’m willing to concede
that there is community to serve, and
that as long as human rights are being
violated there is a place for compassion,
and no town is immune to need, so I’d
better get my bustle on and start painting.
( Image: lokeshsomu.blogspot.com )
Remember that autumn
we drove up to Campbell River,
like teenagers skipping out of class –
a cackle of women, spirituality forming –
felt as if we had bided our time, willing
this union to occur – high on anticipation.
Giddy that our routine femininity had
been strewn across the barricades of
our socially careful existences – we were
like lesbian lovers unafraid to explore our
crevices, our souls hungering for release,
we were researchers, reinventing masks
adopted in formative years, stretching our
capacity to believe, awakened by the crones
among us, sisters united, standing in the
flood of our collective herstory, shedding
the padding of our religious upbringings,
teetering on the brink of a lost divinity –
weavers, once paralyzed by the guck of
patriarchal dictates, fear of ascension
retreating, we broke free, immersed in
Goddess splendour, felt the ecstasy of
true abandonment, were wild women
unrestrained, catalysts for change.
How is it that the passion faded so abruptly,
that motherhood and responsibility, and
the rigours of competing in daily life stripped
away the afterglow, smacked me back into
this rigid self-definition, prayerful, thankful,
yet lacking the empowerment of the island?
Have I stored her somewhere; is there even
a space within me capable of housing such
expansiveness, open to wading once again
in the waters of a lunar deity, willing to sacrifice
superficiality for the compassionate mystery
of the Black Madonna haunting my memory?
(Image:Â paradisefoundsantabarbara.com)
Bought myself a big, old house
with a myriad of rooms; needed
it to accommodate all those I
wanted to please – it’s what I do.
Learned it living in a house full
of children – adults that were
children – do it to compensate
for never having been a child.
Raised my own family, bent
on making sure they had
their space, their autonomy,
they’re gone now, still can’t
quit – spend my days cleaning
up in the aftermath: so much
dirt to launder; need it to be
pristine so they’ll come back.
Bought this old house partially
furnished – remnants of lives
before me – the crumbs of past
denial hardened now, panicked
to imagine what petulance has
been drawn to their neglect,
becoming obsessed about the
infestation, erasing the past
confine myself to the main floor,
ignore the filth on walls – crayon
figures pleading for help – until
daylight reveals truth, and leaves
me no options but to toil harder –
cannot let these patterns repeat,
need to save the innocents –
this work is never done –Â refuse
to see that I am not responsible
for it all –Â project rage onto my
spouse (latest in a string of
targets) for the sin of taking
pleasure, when I cannot relax,
(everyone knows how to unwind
but me, Super Woman) feel the
compulsion to flee, but disability
allots me no recourse – thank
goodness for this big old house –
places to hide, be forgotten –
if it wasn’t for the old crone
who haunts my dreams, drags
me out of my spinning misery
forces me to extend myself,
meets me at the edge of calm
where tranquil waters soothe
my inner churning, and where
kindred spirits come to play,
and connections are real, and
I can roam freely, unattached,
until illness brings me back –
reminds me of my limitations –
that I have been eternally lost
in a house with many rooms
aimlessly wandering in hopes
or renewal, lost for so long
that I’ve forgotten how to let
go, and only in my dreams do
I find the freedom to walk away
and reclaim the life that awaits
(Image:Â bigoldhouses.blogspot.com)
Born to be domesticated
in a white, controlled desert
tending to two-leggeds –
blamed for delinquencies
I fed but did not groom –
privacy overrun by wannabes
everyone has their own scheme –
I am finished, threaten to disclose
neglect – no limitation to disgust
What fate is this? Abandoned
only to perish – Have I not been
loyal? Â Accepting of my role?
Tending to young, in charge of
personal care – translation:
laundry – only comfort solitude.
Past – as industrious as a line
of ants – no longer viable, I am
nothing, dependents gone;
bodily restrictions now claim me
forgotten dreams dissolved – I am
dependent, unwilling legs confine
care unpredictable – ward of the
state – semblance of nutrition
provided, encouraged to sanitize
my body, my attitude; no rest
this home is overpopulated –
vocal laments torment old ears
Pestered by small things, would
leave, stop being a burden, am
decidedly stuck, until life fades.
(Image:Â favim.com)
Contemplating new life –
he, gainfully employed,
promotes change eagerly –
years of isolation render me
dubious, aspirations limited
to a cup of tea, fear dining out
his palate embraced by any menu,
mine a complex set of restrictions,
condemned to serial disappointment
undaunted by my disabilities, he
ventures forth, seeks solutions
with godlike inspiration commands
possibility, accounts for idiosyncracies
pursues alternative options, is a master
of ensuring that dreams do come true.
Impulse would take me back –
resurrect lost passions –
a grave robber taking counsel
from the dead – volatility
a public declaration of extent
of bad choices – no exaggeration –
stench of unburied dreams burn
the eyes when exposed to open air,
the politeness of civil society.
(Image:Â mongolschinaandthesilkroad.blogspot.com)
What options for long term care?
Will life linger, abandon me, alone?
If unconditional love exists, then let
it talk to me, gesture desire, offer
support – safety only comes with sleep
despite this troubled unconsciousness;
oversensitive, naive perhaps, will make it,
if only I push outside the comfort of my bed.
suspicious of following, consuming, believe
that outsiders have forgotten me, worried –
security lies in the hands of loving, attentive
companion, otherwise; trying to trust life.
(Image:Â perfumeonherpassport.wordpress.com)
Split commitments:
One is ambitious,
the other a wanderer;
one labours while
the other lingers.
Yet alike:
Polished political performers,
once knew how to party,
now regressed,
searching for youth –
His a flop,
hers nourished by weed,
each hiding
desperately attempting
to clean up the misery.
He overindulges,
she tries to steer,
both losing their edge
nothing new to offer
former lovers
now fading away,
only thoughtfulness
and a craving for
each others’ support
to bind them.
(Image:Â truefactsonlife.blogspot.com)
I see it in their eyes –
the fear for my safety –
have not been able to paddle
my own boat for some time,
and here I am contemplating
going against the current,
taking a leap, seeking out
new sheltered places.
Survival is risky, they say –
risk is necessary if we’re ever
going to shake this malaise –
no explanation will appease them,
cannot understand the empowerment
that comes from discovering other realities –
promise to stay away from danger –
there are waterways, lands, mountains
to explore – this is not betrayal.
It is moving on, effective collaboration,
we will get along, disclose our differences,
have found willing transport, please
understand, children, we will work
this out, need to create a new reality –
one that allows for relaxation,
celebration – there is nothing left here
but a legacy of suffering, our absence
doesn’t mean our hearts are missing –
our love will be forever present.
(Image:Â artimagesfrom.com)
