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:Â nauticalcottageblog.com)
To see how I created this poem visit:Â Composing Poetry
An earlier post that seemed to be fitting to post here, in the spirit of “Black Madonna”.
Like silk
whispering across my skin;
a gentle mist
kissing my soul;
kindness unburdening me;
warmth, and cinnamon spice;
She comes.
Of the Earth, is She
whose heart beats with mine
a rhythm of life
renewal
and deepest bliss
Her essence luminous and night
shimmering at the water’s edge
or pulsating at the core
of darkness
Alive. Very much alive.
No fanfare proceeds Her,
No choir of angels.
In stillness, know Her.
In openness, receive Her.
She is here.
She is here.
So much rides on adherence to script –
carefully mapped out movements and
lines delivered with precise intonation.
Creativity stuffed into memorized
passages, rehearsed roles, timing
contrived for optimum reactions.
It’s all about the audience, approval,
the importance of positive acclaim,
aiming for that encore performance.
My soul is an improviser –
loathes conventionality,
fears stagnation,
disrupts routine scenarios
with flashes of spicy wit;
thrives on the unexpected,
fueled by gasps, or ohs, or titter,
ignores the pandemonium
as fellow players scramble
to find their cues,
fall in line.
A trickster-spirit
arrogantly hogging the stage
deliberately sabotaging
prescribed protocols;
chastised.
I am contrite, beg forgiveness,
swear to behave in character,
follow predetermined dialogue.
Curtain is set to rise on Act II;
pressure mounting; conformity
threatens to strangle my soul:
panic sets in –
I am not prepared,
have not committed to memory
this role I’ve been assigned –
am certain to disappoint,
again.
Creativity –
eight-legged predator –
invades the decks
of my listing mind,
reproducing rapidly.
Her generous,
bejewelled appendages
skittering beneath
my plastic-boned
Caucasian frailty.
I hesitate –
friend or foe?
Should I trample
crush this invasion,
or surrender…
risk madness?
We are ocean –
bound, shoreless
prefer interior spaces
wary of open vistas
equally vulnerable
collapsible
Skittish
evaders
intent on
escape
future
uncertain…
I flee
creativity’s
lair – enter
into darker
passages
Destiny –
creativity’s cousin –
awaits, tail raised
in venomous arc –
dances a warning
does not
strike
body
glowing
phosphorus
green,
melts into
swirling,
flourescent
particles of
Kundalini
rising.
(Image: fineartamerica.com)
Find me in the audience,
three rows back, amidst
enthusiasts, humbled by
your expertise, perched,
questions burning tongue,
too reticent to find a voice,
afraid of being discovered,
ridiculed, or misconstrued,
as if you found my poetry,
see only the images formed
there, miss the raw emotion.
I’d want to scream “Stop!”
Too many polished writers
whose words, in black and
white, float through the web
while mine are immobilized
Yet, I return, hungry to feast
from the same banquet, miss
what is being served up, as I
have no plate ready to receive.
Ready?
I scan the agenda,
anxiety clouding interpretation,
false sense of security driving.Ready.
Set?
Have miscalculated expectations,
face adolescent attitudes –
impatience, hunger, angst –
too late to turn back,
I’m engaged.
Set.
Go!
Dive in, creativity flowing,
inner resources my well,
no time for hesitation,
this is life.
Go!
If the Ninja Turtles had a mother,
I’d be her – an overly pure-hearted
woman with a penchant for rescuing
victims and conquering evil.
I’d prod them to stand up to injustice,
teach them the difference between hiding
and protecting themselves, encourage them
to reveal their soft-underbellies with pride.
I’d teach them the importance of humility,
(thus the masks), to never back down in
the face of danger, and above all to treat
women as equals, defend friends.
If I birthed the Ninja Turtles, I would
expect their undying loyalty, be certain
that I could call them at any moment,
feel safe and secure in my aging.
Should they ever let me down, ignore
my cries for help, I would know they
were in trouble, would brace myself
to fight the evil that plagued them.
Become a superwoman, a christ-like
figure, casting out demons, saving
the world, demonstrating that I am
worthy of my place as matriarch.
Take myself so seriously, I would not
notice that others are disinterested,
self-absorbed, or asleep, unaware of
our super-powers, worship their own.
Did I say worship? Am I somehow
delusional, so well-intentioned,
idealistic, that I cannot see the
impossibilities here – have ignored
that these are mutants, not children
been so focused on the heroic –
believed in the power of fiction –
blinded to the caricature I’ve become?
Of course the Ninja Turtles do not
have a mother, are the brainchild
of their illustrator, whose creative
blood enliven them, scripts them.
Seems I need to find a project of
my own, address my biological
ravings in a more productive, less
fictionalized manner – get real.
This old house wraps itself around me,
radiates the warmth of memories,
a solid testament to the passage of time,
offers space to grow,
a hospitable and loving place,
I am safe here.
In my dreams,
the ocean awaits,
a rhythmic keeper of time,
reflecting clouds, moonlight,
raging with the storms,
in quiet times, calming –
a blessed, imaginary,
companion.
The rains have come,
swamped our intentions,
forced us indoors,
inconvenienced play,
turned our solid ground
to clay – a soggy tribulation –
they will subside
and new growth
will follow,
I tell myself.
I am an eternal student,
in love with life,
education unfinished,
a stumbler,
not a scholar,
temporarily lost,
seeking direction
in unfamiliar territory.
I am a neophyte,
longing for guidance,
recognizing my vulnerability,
a delicate balance this
emotional wading,
mindfulness needed.
I project the mud of the past
see only insurmountable hills
outside these walls,
anticipate setbacks,
fear a lack of tenacity –
abhor my own ugliness;
rally myself with hopes
of solid footing ahead
and the ocean beyond.
On the other side of madness
stands a mighty fortress –
a castle to hold court –
we have all passed that way,
the passage is well-marked,
communally served,
I have committed
to the descent, am
Earth’s child.
Life is but a station,
a temporary stopping place,
we are all time travellers –
destinations varied –
called to take action,
choose a route.
I have been distracted,
missed signals,
opportunities,
find myself left behind
shamed, alone, uncertain,
aborted my search,
preferring retreat
need to reorient.
The kingdom harbours
an abundance of offerings,
sustenance abounding,
fruitful, flourishing
delights, uniquely
appealing, perhaps
an acquired taste.
Spring, like a faerie nymph,
draws me in, a harbinger,
hopeful, playful, promising
new adventures,
calling me to indulge
in fantasies, dine on
wild imagination,
recreate myself.
I am wondering
if I can accommodate,
fulfill my soul’s longing
know the wonders of
heaven, play host
to the mysteries of beauty
without ever leaving
the warmth of this old house.
The ocean calls me,
from the dream time,
will not let me sleep –
her tidal pull a magnet
for this weary sojourner,
beckons me to rise,
to strive, to succeed.
She is my destination.
Society moves en masse,
flowing with the tides,
propelled by a shared
consciousness.
Destination unknown;
purpose undetermined.
We take flight, cling
to wings of promise,
ignore the stench
of destruction.
Reaching for the sky;
barely hanging on.
We land, school together
tell tales of adventure
document progress
avoid reality
proponents of diversity;
shunning differences
All among us has a story
shies from speaking aloud
fears castigation
deflects
fearlessly outspoken:
scapegoating sins.
Daring to speak a truth,
I falter, watch as the
crowd retreats in
shunning silence.
Destination unknown,
purpose undetermined.
If
I were
to write
every day
for one
hundred days,
would my soul
be purged of
this malaise;
is it a thing
to be dredged,
dragged up –
twisted
and tied
like tattered
bed sheets
knotted
together;
is there
a remedy
for this
scourge;
or is this
an inherent
restlessness,
a fiery blue
spark of eternal
angst igniting
passion – a call
to write?
One Woman's Quest 