“Brazen’s a hussy!”
heard herself say,
as bullies circled on
playground that day
“You’re a sissy!”
the sass came back,
launched herself –
a full-on attack
Pinned the biggest
to gritty concrete floor
“You’re weird!” cried the cowards
who bothered her no more.
(Originally written for Twitter. Image my own)
Mother followed all the trends –
Scarsdale and grapefruit diets,
minis and maxis,
platforms and pumps –
reaching for an ideal
my child’s mind
could not comprehend
Father dreamt of a voice makeover
had flown his ancestral roots
in search of…what?
I did not know
I learned that men
were to be pleased,
and compassion
was a woman’s role
and it was folly to hazard
confrontation when alcohol
was in the mix,
Intangible as life was
I deduced that secrets –
the avoidance of scandal –
rendered women ineffective
and by the very circumstance
of my birth, I was tainted,
weighted by shame
destined to endure
pain as love
invested in
my worthlessness
Except life is evolution
and rage emerges
from oppression
and conviction
smashes the impotence
of ideals, embraces
the abstracts
of fluidities,
and merging out of shame
I see that struggle
is opportunity
and that rewriting legacies
is an honourable goal
and I do have power
in any given moment…
only wish
I had known it
sooner.
(Art my own)
Paralysis desecrates floorboards
leaves me suspended…
the skeletons of lost dreams
sprawled out beneath me…
disordered
I am powerless
against the nightly haunts:
a dispirited youth
a righteous mother,
that lonesome child…
Judgment has a long shadow
and slits for eyes…
I don blinders –
tunnelled between
guilt and loathing
This onslaught,
this psychic terrorism
mocks my immobility
forces me to mine
forgotten pith
Survival, instinctual,
steels against the assault
raises prayer
as antidote
An armless attempt
to assert will over fear –
hoping strength restores
vulnerability’s war cry.
(Image mine)
Mama says wear red shoes
Gives a woman power
But I wobble and stumble
six inches makes me tower
So I trade in my stilettos
for a crimson pair of docs
and much to Ma’s dismay
some days I don crocs
It’s not the shoes that determine might
I tell her, but the soul in the fight.
(Photo: Mom and red accessories – shoes no doubt match. She is posing with her baby brother.)
Trees have a story,
buried in their roots,
refined by seasonal passages,
etched in scarred bark
Birds know these stories
Sing their praise, unapologetic –
and we can hear them too,
if we only learn to listen
I have a story
birthed from parental lips
delineated by the jostling
of our many limbed life
It states that I am the good one,
the responsible, the brilliant,
the child of hope and valour…
this story is not mine
I am a tree, whose scars
suggest a history, whose roots
remain hidden, and whose voice
was lost in familial tempests
The birds know it, though
and carry my essence
on winged notes, back
to source, where I am written.
(Art my own)
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.
(Colouring Lessons first appeared here June, 2017. Image my own)
Snapdragons transport me
back to Father’s gardens –
the pleasure of pinching
delicate floral lips
Forbidden, was I
tiny feet banished from
tiers of ordered colours –
how he worshipped those rows
Hours spent on knees,
as if in prayer… attention
lavished on nurturing growth
while I shrivelled on sidelines
Longed to dig beside him,
sully my hands and share
his passion, ignorant of
an inner drive to weed
Felt only walls of separation
the coldness of perfection,
so in my wilful way,
I rebelled against taboos
On tiptoe, stepped between
the bobbing arrangements
marred the well-tended soil
and pinched the snapdragons.
(Snapdragons first appeared here in March, 2018. Edited for this edition. Art my own)
Is it naiveté
this nurturing impulse?
I am a product of genetics
a force dictating flaws
Railing against depression
trending towards light
I exert positivity
borrow bravery
Am odd, I agree
but what is real?
Addiction affects us all
violates progress
My loyalty, intrinsically
tied to abuse, know only chaos.
(Image my own)
Anxiety burns
an acidic devouring
confidence impaled –
mind wanders to childhood dreams
uncovers fear’s origin.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. I came across this tanka written in May/21 that seemed to match with the image I recently posted on my other blog. I decided to pair them here.)
It wasn’t the knowledge of stability –
chaos had the upper hand back then.
It wasn’t even that love was expressed –
unconditional an unheard of concept
It was an unspoken presence
the reassurance of rocks
the irrepressible allure
of a freshwater stream
How a child’s heart
found encouragement
in the whispering wind
solace in the arbored shelter
Naturally the din of home life
overpowered this self-assured
passage, disrupted kinship
and shattered childish faith
But all that is behind now
and when I clear cluttering
thoughts, disperse static
emotions, quiet the heart
The rhythms are still there –
presence offering sustenance…
(Poem first appeared here, January, 2021. Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 