Category: art

More Hole Than Whole

The woman in the mirror is flawed
age spots where freckles once sprouted,
streaks of white, peppering former auburn,
inner scars marking discontent.

How then is she expected
to know wholeness?

In days when mind was sharp
self-confidence wobbled;
where spirituality was planted,
self-judgment undermined.

The path to wholeness
pitted with potholes.

How often emotion overrode
common sense, and choices
led her astray, how thick
the mud of guilt she mired in.

Repulsed at her own reflection
she was anything but whole.

Less self-defacing these days
she examines the worn bits
with wry acceptance –
acknowledges the toil.

If wholeness is perfection,
she’s ready to let go.

(Image my own. AI enhanced)

Re-de-fine-d

Ask me how I’m doing
and I’ll say “fine”, not
because I’m actually fine,
but because “fine” is the only
socially acceptable response.

If I said that I have been lying
here, for three hours now,
willing my body to move,
that would elicit unsolicited
advice and tarnish my “fine”.

I’d berate myself for breaking
my promise not to moan,
knowing that complaining
provokes a compulsive need
to fix, which just infuriates me

Because my concept of trying –
which is defined by getting dressed
each day – does not match trying
every new therapy, drug, exercise
offered by well-meaning but clueless

others, who may experience fatigue
at times, but have no understanding
of what is is to be exhausted after
something as simple as bathing,
let alone debating what I haven’t tried.

So, ask me how I’m feeling, and
I’ll say “fine” and we move on
to the weather, or the latest
movie must-see, and I can bask
in the warmth of the contact

carry the conversation into the
void of the rest of my day, smile
to think that I still have friends
who accept my “fine” even though
they know I am anything but…

(Art my own)

A Mother’s Grief

(Art my own. The drawing and the poem were in response to a documentary featuring a mother’s loss of her child by suicide. Please listen with care.)

Sorrow lines her edges
in blue-hued shadows
grief’s moss overpowering light

Lines etched erasable
she is fragmented, haunted
pain a persistent noose

She will rally to find order
lend her voice to cause
speak her child’s name

never without a catch –
the once-honeyed moniker
now slicing, heartbreaking

Vanity holds her together
dresses her daily mask
propels forward movement

While rage, and betrayal
roil within – a silent scream
shattering her inner landscape

Strong, they call her, courageous –
all lies, resentment tell hers –
no loss worthy of such praise

She mothers a ghost now,
does her best to nurture a memory
ties her apron strings to prevention

Secretly counts the seconds
till her faith will release her
returning the child to her arms

(Art my own. The drawing and the poem were inspired by a documentary highlighting a mother’s loss of her child by suicide. Please listen with care.)

Compromise

It’s like aiming for the ideal
and settling for second best

Setting your life up for success
then sabotaging the outcome

It’s like committing to a dream
with blinders on – threats ignored

I know where I want to be
have tasted the serenity
steeped in beauty
and lived with peace

Yet the noise continues
the daily bustle,
the inevitable stench
my soul being griddled

It’s what I’ve known, isn’t it?
sanctity at a price –
the absolute terror
of selling out for peace of mind

I will plant gardens here
at the edge of insanity
and outline my future
denial at my side.

(Art my own)

Nature of Relations

Is this estrangement self-imposed
or does my awkward rapture
set me aside?

More engaged in recording nature
than in ordinary banter –
find the portal to human interaction
passing questionable

throngs focus on such peculiarities
while I attempt sketching relations
trees akin to cousins,
and birds happily possessing my soul

we are escapees –
alternate beings
charged with renewal.

(Sketch my own)

In Situ

Upgrading –
setting new standards
learning anew

Kin/ heritage
pursues me –
influence
and legacy

Timid concerning
the unspoken
the understated

Seduction courts
a response –
I am flush with possibility
basking in attention

But God is calling me home –
reminds me of mortality
humbles me in situ

I am already engaged
passion in the moment
dalliances redundant

(Self portrait created blind with acrylic paint and palette knife)

Let Me Out Of Here

Weighed down by complications –
you see, the amount of baggage
I carry surpasses my storage
capacity; and despite attempts
to simplify, paranoia tends to
my bathroom routines, and
no amount of persuasion can
appease her suspicions; and
the majority of my contents
have been accumulated by
my father’s business, and not
really mine to unload, although
I try, his tyranny still haunts me;
and well, anything new that I
start has to be protected from
the familial bouts of insanity;
and that is why I just want to
pack my bags and get out of
here, and be a mother to my
children; but it’s complicated.

(Art my own)

Who Am I?

(Trigger warning: this poem alludes to child abuse)

Who I am
if not a harbinger –
eyes turned to the sky
diligent?

And what defines me
beyond calm in a crisis
action-taking, firmly
responsible?

No bystander here
I will fight injustice
free the wrongfully accused
capable

Driven
driving
fearless
awake

No sleeping
when danger presents
turmoil relentless
nightmares persist

Visions of uprising
and natural disasters
filling my dreams –
I grow weary

I cry, but no one is listening
the bustle outside reflective
of lives being lived
while I cower

Worried that the sky will fall
and I will be too torn
too bruised
to rise to the occasion

That child I coddled
now questioning my motives
that woman I saved
scoffing at my delusion

I am neither saint nor saviour
I am just a woman/child running
from the drunk under the table
still trying to define herself
as anything but his prey.

(Drawing is my own)