Category: creativity

Colouring Lessons

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.

(Image: www.siparent.com)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nested

Nestled in with childhood truths –
second-hand, missing perspective –
nursing a creeping creativity:
insignificant clarity expanding
measurably, hurried.

Once social, now retreating
papered over failure, have fallen
frigid waves infiltrating, overtaking
chronically pained, over and over
contemplating flight, freedom

voiceless, expressionless, flat
even revelation muted, unmoving
boundaries, discussed, protective
currently crumbling…underestimated
the struggle, the pervasiveness

have considered a military approach
strident restrictions to nullify passions
but I am a weaver, open to uncovering
blessings in failure, employed in soaring,
grounded, yet questing, unsettled

disease is not a repellent for the mind,
objects conjure movement, creatures
undoubtedly defensive, renewal motivated
I am dank, moist, lacking burning passion
in this explosive personal nest.

A Body in the Bathtub

There’s a dead body in my bathtub –
metaphorically speaking, of course,
but the shock of it is real

I’ve seen her before, this woman,
young, stylish – like a rising star –
her nakedness is blinding

How long has she been here, and
is she not cold: stark white skin
tinged with blue – appalling

I’d be more sympathetic, except
I’ve enough to contend with
given the plans we are making

the revolving door of visitors
and obligations and responsibility;
she’s more than I can deal with

but wait… did I detect movement,
could there be life in her yet,
I cannot tear myself away

there’s something eerily familiar
about her youthfulness Рa naivet̩
that I’ve long since buried

reminds me of dreams I once had –
fantasies of theater, and Shakespeare –
wanted to be the next Maggie Smith

I see it all now – the gradual sapping
of life, slashed by choices – a more
conventional route, an achingly painful

death – oh, I’ve tried to keep her alive,
dabbled in sidelines, never a priority;
you see worth is tied up in tradition

and to pursue one’s dreams…well,
that’s just self-centered folly and
I let her whither, I admit, but

I hadn’t meant to let her die
just could not bear the burden
of one more disappointment

Anger rises and I want to shake her
this embodiment of failure – how
was I supposed to keep you alive

You were an escape, that’s all
a vessel for hope and aspirations
the musings of a misguided youth

what kind of devilry is this –
you showing up now, when illness
has claimed me, and potential

wanes – are you taunting me?
Is this a threat?  don’t just lie there
mired in your own drama

face me, woman – and so she rises
like a second coming, and I see
that she is only a mirror

a reflection of myself, not disabled,
but polished, refined, accomplished
challenging me to never give up

be found dead in a pool of regrets –
a certainty at the rate I am going –
obstacles, she tells me, are illusory

success requires goals, and progress
is not defined by limitations, and if
you pace yourself, value yourself

believe in yourself, in us, then there
is time – and for a brief moment,
her image fades and I see my father

blue eyes exuding warmth, and
confidence, encouraging me on
and I understand: I am still alive…

( Image by Elena del Palacio, Untitled)

Eccentricity Counts

Professors may make strange bedfellows,
but originality does engage young minds;
ideology while exciting, repels intuition;
and doing well is not about belonging,
it is acknowledgment and reward received.

Listen to me, I am lost, begging for do-overs.
Superiority is a goal for some, while I retreat
into leisure, begin losing awareness, am an odd
gatherer, keeper of underdeveloped knowledge,
gushing creativity, and injecting limitations.

If I could meld empathy, follow unbeaten
paths, inform myself afresh, I’d be bloated
with enthusiasm, pregnant with progress,
but my outlook, like moss, is humble: I am
outcast, marginalized, insignificant…

Projecting discomfort into materialism,
may once have been healthy, now initiating
death by unconscious eating: a human sponge.
Instructing once fueled me –  my passion
eclectic, as all good teacher should be.

What remedies will persuade those who have
forgotten the way, are numbed.
What new dawn will force feed us out of this
resignation, instill pursuit of higher knowing,
ignite a quest for empowerment?

(Image from pinterest.com)

Now, A Little About Me

Poetry, the words penned on this blog, have emerged as a gift from the darkness of a debilitating disease.

Three years ago, I was a special education teacher, loving my career, volunteering with the junior girls’ basketball team, and making plans with my husband for our next trip.  I had been diagnosed with Fibromyalgia in 2010, but a change in diet and weekly trips for acupuncture seemed to keep that at bay.  True, I could no longer participate in the acting group I’d so loved, or play tennis quite as actively as before, but that was compensated for by the arrival of grandchildren in our lives.

Then, in the middle of summer, 2013, I came down with pneumonia, and although my lungs seemed to clear with the prescribed medication, I continued to have breathing problems, accelerated heart rate, and bouts of severe dizziness.  I saw specialist after specialist, all with differing opinions, and then, thankfully, my respiratory doctor diagnosed Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.

“Myalgic Encephalomyelitis” is the formal term, my family doctor explained, although most recently she told me it’s been renamed Central Sensitivity Syndrome in an attempt to explain the varying complex symptoms.

By May of the next year, I could no longer drive without falling asleep at the wheel; had lost my ability to do math; was losing recognition of words; and could not climb a flight of stairs.  Sitting and standing became incredibly taxing, and at my very worst, I could not tolerate food – ugly sores would break out in my mouth and face, and my stomach would swell painfully.

Social interaction was exhausting, and watching television overly stimulating.  I spent hours on end lying in a darkened room in silence.  Scents were enough to send my nervous system into overload, and sudden noises made me startle like a baby.  I could not concentrate enough to read .

Words were my saviour.  Ideas floated around in my consciousness, forming images that I would cling to until I was able to find the words to release them.  Poems, like shining beacons of hope, emerged, and I felt brief interludes of accomplishment, as if my life still mattered, as if I still had purpose.

This past year, there has been improvement.  I am able to be out of bed longer, and with the help of a homemaker, can even prepare a few meals, and best of all, get out of the house to visit with friends, or have a meal out.

I came across this Ted Talk this morning, posted on Facebook, in which the speaker reveals her journey with ME.   An articulate speaker, Jen Brea has become an active voice in the crusade to bring this disease to the forefront of medical awareness.

I invite you to watch Jen Brea.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Zoo Life

How else would you define us but a zoo:
this ragged attempt to appear socially fit?

I drag my children with me, expectations
formed from still life exhibits, picture –

perfect cameos of happy lives, poised
as any good television family might…

Who hasn’t had a rough ride, disembarked
and vowed never to repeat sins?  Hold on

to what you have kids, I warn; be wary of
life:  it’s what I’ve learned – tried to change

the tableau, inject creativity into freeze
frames; snared in webs of my weaving,

like the black widow entrapping my prey,
instinct releasing venom, plots spiralling

out of control; am prepared to wipe clean
the past, but stumble, lose grip, shamed

beg my daughters to look away, too late,
tension mounts, threaten to consume us

our dreams, the source of our imaginations
and I listen to the screams, helpless, until

one child takes up the cry, offers herself,
as I would have once, forces me to sit by,

worry my only companion, while she sinks
deeper into the hell of this artificially caged

confine; our connection lost – unprepared
am I, with all the wrong resources, clinging

to damnable passivity, alone, wretched,
guilt-ridden, afraid for generations unborn –

and as I turn away, in despair, I catch sight
of her, my child, revelling in her story, vital –

no crisis – just a brilliant young woman,
unbound by the restraints of this zoo.

(Image: obutecodanet.ig.com.br)

Passion Exposed

Seduced –
the virility of youth
irresistible even for an old
duck like me –  so unexpected,
relentless, I ignore exhaustion
lean into the fantasy, allow
desire to embrace me,
cross a boundary,
surrender…

step up
to the stage,
bare-chested,
shameless, speak
into the mic, reveal
my words: those
childlike bits
of myself;
hope

my passion
does not offend,
the blatant sexuality
of my tongue, my voice,
raw desire, peaked arousal,
does not mar my reputation,
pathetic, really, that one so past
her prime should dare to grace the
boards – surely a younger woman’s game.

(Image: www.aspersstratford.co.uk)

 

 

Mermaid Dreams

Descending
into the mythical,
entranced,
supported by
the severity of
this current difficulty

call it fantasy,
but attempting
movement is
destroying my
passage

I am pulling,
shattering
this barricade
of a life; blue
progressing:
ocean bound.

(Image: nauticalcottageblog.com)

To see how I created this poem visit: Composing Poetry