Dear Charlotte Perkins Gilman (Yellow Wallpaper)

I have examined your wallpaper,
discussed the scholarly attributes
of shades of yellow, traced the edges
of your unravelling with my mind,
argued the merits of Gothic horror;

marvelled at the brilliance of wording,
the courage to define the nature of
feminine madness, the boldness to
highlight inequalities long before the
establishment of a Person’s Act.

Forgive me, but I need to set aside
this keyboard for a moment, for I tire
easily, am suffering from an exhaustion
that is systemic and calls for elimination
of all stimulus in favour of rest, you see

I share your sentence of confinement,
isolated to a room with windows, my
mind wandering to ancestral gardens,
contemplating shadows and movement
cognizant of underlying forces, creeping.

My husband has just left, dear man, having
checked on me, taking on my burden,
concerned that I am not sleeping at night
thinks that by reading and rereading your
words I am only fueling an already over-

active imagination; begging me to be still
as the doctor has recommended; but I am
burning to tell you that time has no
relevance between us and that you and I
exist simultaneously – a secret we dare

not confess – how correct your impulse
that there was more than one woman,
that we are many, barred by the designs
of society, papered over by irrational,
outdated shades of yellow, lacking

symmetry, or sensibility, suffocating
our creativity, tortuously contorting
ourselves to been seen, accepted.
It is the smell of our discordant souls
that pervades your consciousness

the rotted withering of  a stifled
existence – a yellowed existence –
once hopeful, sunny, now molding
mucous, desperately torn away
at the edges, pleading for escape

How grateful I am that you see –
may I call you Charlotte – that you
have smelled the angst, witnessed
the struggle, are willing to tear at
the sticking places, to set us free.

(I wrote this in the throes of severe M.E. – sleepless nights, coupled with systemic exhaustion and endless confinement to bed brought to mind the short story :  Yellow Wallpaper.  I submit it here and am linking up with Brave and Reckless’ challenge based on Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s piece)

Love-In

Dreams big
this budding leader,
astral charts
painted on her walls,
thoughts always adventuring.

Eight summers
we’ve camped together
grown our minds
and spirit –
an inter-generational
love-in.

(It’s summer camp time at Grandma’s again.  Written for Ragtag Community’s prompt, astral, and Fandango’s, camp.)

No Fool Here

We grow our world
under evening light,
all soul charm and dance –
he a gentle father,
nice guy, quiet…

I believed.

But when search neared,
touchy – see a former ruse,
one smile warmed and…
sod off!

(Friday, I visit Magnetic Poetry online – words not my own, but I take responsibility for the construction. Image from personal collection.)

Rainstorm

Rain teases, trickles,
more sweat than shower
air thick and smothering
sits on my chest.

I exhale in puffs
willing chest to rise
begrudging this outing

Cardinal whistles
happy scales, while
somber sky squeezes
a single droplet
kisses my skin
and then explodes
pellet-like missiles
of water soaking

clothes cling
as a river traces
contours of face
body melting
into flow

and through it all
cardinal sings
a laughing melody.