Category: culture

Good Woman

Cater,
Good Woman; keep your pantry full –
there are mouths to feed, and
whims to answer,
smile on.

Smile on,
Good Woman, feed the children young
and old, their needs cry out
for nourishment;
be strong.

Be strong,
Good Woman, tending your oven,
concocting recipes,
born to serve, raised
to please.

To please
Good Woman, be sure your own pot
is overflowing, lest
fatigue sets in,
and then

And then,
Good Woman, who caters to you –
the children are gone and
husband retired –
what now?

(This is a Crown Cinquain written for Dark Side of the Moon’s challenge.)

Black Madonna, Revisited

Remember that Autumn,
we drove up to Campbell River,
like teenagers, skipping out of class –
a cackle of women, spiritually forming?

Felt as if we had bided our time, willing
this union to occur – high on anticipation,
giddy that our routine femininity had
been strewn across the barricades
of our socially contrived existence.

We were like lesbian lovers, unafraid
to explore our crevices, our souls
hungering for release…

We were researchers, reinventing masks
adopted in formative years, stretching
our capacity to believe…

awakened by the crones amongst us,
sisters united, standing in the the flood
of our collective herstory, shedding
the padding of our religious upbringing,
teetering on the brink of a lost divinity.

Weavers, once paralyzed by the guck
of patriarchal dictates, fear of ascension
retreating, we broke free, immersed in
Goddess splendour, felt the ecstasy
of true abandonment, were wild women
unrestrained, catalysts for change.

How is it that the passion faded so abruptly –
that motherhood and responsibility, and
the rigours of competing in daily life stripped
away the afterglow, smacked me back into
this rigid self-definition, prayerful, thankful,
yet lacking the empowerment of the island?

Have I stored her somewhere; is there even
a space within me capable of housing such
expansiveness, open to wading once again
in the waters of a lunar deity, wiling to sacrifice
superficiality for the compassionate mystery
of the Black Madonna haunting my memory?

( Black Madonna first appeared here in November of 2016.  I resubmit her (edited)  Art mine)

Disconnect

Narrow passages,
spiritual spires set bar –
minded not teachings,
constraint of hypocrisy
oppressed connection to God.

(Written in response to Willow Poetry’s “What Do You See?” challenge, with the promptings of Ronovan Writes Haiku Challenge: narrow/ minded.)

Levitating

Suits meet, banter about deals,
conspiratorial heads bent, deep
throaty laughs, confidence reeking.

I glide by, imperceptibly, am a whisper
on the window of their intensity.

Families congregate on front lawns,
squeals of delight trailing blurs,
adult murmurs lost in shrill echoes.

I float on by, an ethereal witness,
no more than the wisp of a cloud.

Only a dog, unleashed, catches
a whiff of something inexplicable,
gives chase, nips at nothingness.

I am elusive, lacking substance,
he retreats bewildered, interest lost.

Am I somehow flawed,  I wonder
aloud to the gathering of females
draped across my bed, intrigued

Have landed now, solidly connected
to this other-abled reality, grounded.

Intimate discussions of life’s mystery
peaks interest, all want to learn to fly,
beg me to demonstrate, inspired to try.

Detachment is the secret, I reveal;
just launch yourself and release.

Instincts grasp to offer support,
arms reaching out in assistance,
roots hindering their deliverance.

Alone, I swirl above reeling minds
dissolve into the mist, am free.

(It’s poetics night at dVerse and our host, Gina, asks us to consider our poetic hum – what duality we lead.  For three years, I lived an isolated, bedridden existence, while the rest of the world hummed along (pun intended).  It was fertile ground for writing.  The poem, Levitating, was written 3 years ago, and immediately came to mind when I read the prompt.)

 

Imagining Genius

Imagine befriending genius –
accepting social awkwardness
embracing habitual quirks as
incubation for enlightenment.

If I could strip down, release
preconceived notions, agendas,
lie naked, exposed, in shallow
waters, intimately entwined,

unencumbered by sexuality
or gender protocols, I would
shake this sensual impotency –
become one with creativity.

As my father, wounded, I
am inhibited by my feminine,
opting for compliance over
strength, a conditioned identity.

His mystery extends, flawless
sculpting, archetypal secrets,
pretense proclaiming normalcy,
usurping vitality, genius stifled.

(Submitted in response to Reena’s Exploration Challenge #78.  Click the link to see the quotation prompt.  Imagining Genius first appeared here in Feb. 2016. Image from personal collection.)

Sky-Suited

Do fiddle together, they say,
as if man lust were in want

when his smooth, cool music
fingers my girly drives
are I ugly – not gorgeous?

Some waxy, like rust,
saying one of thousand

not sad, but like rain
are sky-suited.

(Fridays are Magnetic Poetry day.  Play online. Image from personal collection.)

Message In a Bottle 2

Risk-taking equates with freedom, 
an affirmation from my iced tea’s cap
manna, I decide – message welcome
encouragement in life choices apt.

An affirmation from my iced tea’s cap
I overlook the mass produced twist
encouragement in life choices apt
consumerism’s ploy I can’t resist.

I overlook the mass produced twist
sensibility to magic will succumb
consumerism’s ploy I can’t resist
Risk-taking equates with freedom

Sensibility to magic will succumb
empowered by assembly-line crap
risk-taking equates with freedom
inspired, my spirit does readily adapt.

Inspired, my spirit does readily adapt
sensibility to magic will succumb
even a message from a bottle cap
enough to risk in favour of freedom.

(This month dVerse poets are examining the Pantoum, a form I am finding difficult to follow, but willing to keep trying. I have rewritten the original Magic In a Bottle  to fit this form.)

Hardly Justice

An innocent sip
too late
awareness dawns –
spiked!
Nausea rolls in
room spins
assailant offers
a hand, a ride,
the regal miss
shakes her head
wobbles, hand
held out warns
to no avail –
vomit sprays
victorious spew
depraved perp’s
plot thwarted.

(Unfortunately based on a true story. Even though she and her friends watched each other’s drinks, the bartender was in on the ploy. Thank God my daughter escaped further harm. Women shouldn’t have to worry about this on a night out.

Written for dVerse pub where De Jackson is hosting with the prompt ‘spike’. Also linking up with Ragtag Community – spray; and Fandango – regal.)