Category: culture

What’s Wrong With This Image?

I hear my mother’s voice
questioning my intentions
certain I’m not doing it right
this wifely thing

I’ll be abandoned, surely –
it all rests on a string for her –
if dinner isn’t on the table at 4:38
or the beds are not made right away
or the laundry basket, unfolded,
remains in sight –
then who blames the man
for leaving.

Six generations now
I’ve witnessed women fighting
for equality, for recognition
and still the old guard holds on

And now politicians –
men with loose jowled egos
and paunchy stances –
and so-called religious leaders
call for a retraction –
women’s lives at stake

Who will lobby for women’s rights
when the female voice is silenced
needs carefully tucked away
so as not to raise ire in her mate?

White Noise

(Warning: foul language)

Rallies, hired guards,
warnings of revolution
and God knows what

Ambition is a cruel cage

Freak offs, and hitmen,
made-up masculinity
unintelligible banter

Power wields cold chains

Misogyny is not a win
archaic ideations –
not the mark of divinity-

Free the barbed emotions
of Patriarchal walls
unstable…and now…
exposed

Despair is paralysis
a surrender to the lies

Shooter drills no solution

It’s fear that motivates
and righteousness that binds
and in the white noise
of rising awareness

The perpetrators
calmly walk away
Exit strategy preplanned

While we pray
that karma is a bitch
and limp back
to our wasted lives.

(Art my own)

We Are Not Islands

We are not islands
isolated
insulated
to be ignored

We are hearts engaged
in a relational dance:
intertwining stories
weaving new tales

Yearning for love’s reciprocity
Delighting in wonder of discovery

Slugging through painful demise
Striving to be better

We build walls
construct towers
follow paths leading nowhere –
the pitfalls of our quest

Artificial barriers
lofty ideals
dead ends…
and still we push on

Dreaming of hands that hold
and gentle waters
soothing and war
passionate kisses
Love’s rewards

We exist
not for accumulation
but for the gifts that arise
when open hearts dance.

(Image my own)

We The Unseen

Edging towards gratitude
praying for salvation
It’s where we all want to be, right?

Why then is discernment
telling me to run –
Me, feeling claustrophobic
in crowds?

The chatter is discordant
seems we’re lowering our standards
mistaking temporary fails
as treachery

I try to stay hopeful
but my essence is parked
in invisibility, the clamour
of commercialism
condemning the likes of me
to back alleyways

Danger is everywhere
the lush slopes of ableism
 renders us shut-ins easy prey
progress whizzing by

I live in descent
drawn to and avoidant
of the lure of merging
always lagging

any vibrancy from my kind
perceived as garbage –
faith skips over the victim
drives us to hide
lesser beings are we

I take my chances,
dream of greener pastures
seeking the blessed promise

Joy, life has taught me,
always comes with a side of menace

(Image my own)

These Times

Who is at the table
negotiating peace?

A trans man
bares his brave chest
Is his flesh not
our flesh?

Indigineous mothers
cry for lost daughters
Is their plight
not our plight?

Shopkeepers moan
how long can we endure
the inequities
of an indifferent eye?

Child of mine
what future awaits
as I watch our progress
slide, painfully in reverse?

I want to be a beacon
of encouragement
believe that harmony
even exists

But the noise
in the streets
is deafening
truths trampled

The false prophets
the politicians
the blinding pull
of greed

There are none at the table
but anarchy’s decoys.


Where Is She In This Dream?

Watching the man wander
between home and industry,
the apron of his trade firmly fixed,
a sparkle of grit in his coiffed beard

The children, too, find joy
in his space, running between
house and workshop,
dog bounding at their feet
proudly on guard.

An outsider
and sink bound
she moves by rote
tea towel slung over shoulder
maintains a distance –
the dream is not hers.

She waits
weights
pretends
denies

Is losing her edges
and the parameters he sets
keep shifting, and
she is falling short

and the children, now hungry
tug on her apron for acknowledgment –
their father having taught them well —
she lives to meet their needs.

What’s for supper? they whine,
already preparing to grouse:
I don’t like that!
You liked it last week, she’ll reply
Weary, she feels herself fading

A meal on the table
and the man drags his feet –
would not award her respect
to appear on time

She’ll abide the disarray
while counting to herself
the minutes till this is over
and the children are in bed
and the man has returned to work
and nothingness is hers…

The numbness of lacking a dream.

(Art my own)

Is There An Exit Strategy?

Following political tides –
mesmerized by neglect
of actual issues – playing
to an audience of moaners
(standard consumerist
plights) – glossing over
exploitation of women,
verbal slaughter of race,
religion and social values

Wondering about media –
who commandeer bias,
swallowing atrocities and
spewing contrived truths,
absent sound voice, or will,
jeopardizing the security
of so many trampled in
the race for what? Surely
not responsibility – what

lapse of conscience has
allowed hateful rhetoric
to bloody progress, no
consequences?  Who will
bear the burden when in
the absence of morality
or respect for humanity,
the margins will increase?

The world quakes at the
failure to acknowledge
this broken path, see only
a devaluation of assets,
perceive a race that did
no more than increase
the monarchy of a king,
grant power to absolve
sins – a sleight-of-hand
trick – nothing to do with
the common habitants –
have so many questions
about how they’ll proceed.

(I wrote this poem in 2016. Same issue, different date. Surreal. Image my own)