Category: culture

Sticks And Stones

Intuition and compassion
combined with knowledge
an effective healer make,

yet, historically, women
applying such skills – labelled
witches – burnt at the stake.

The injustice of such trials
now commonly accepted – still
the title reeks of something sinister.

And if a man raises his voice
in ire, driven to protest, he
is righteous – to be heeded,

but let a woman speak out
against lack of fairness – she
is a witch by another name.

I say we banish the verbal putdowns,
condemn the ignorance inspired by fear,
listen to one another, and invite progress.

(Written for Manic Mondays 3 Way prompt: witch, witchy, bewitched.)
 

 

Mining Civilization

Digging for gold
in an overcrowded mine,
the dust of narcissism
blinding our passage.

Rural roots worship
celebrity – well-travelled
hype overshadowing
common decency –

Powerless, we are
throngs of insignificance –
fraudulence and anti-social
rhetoric failing to elicit pause.

Our screams, ignored, do not
alleviate the suffocation –
How do we blast through
the rage, re-enact a vision,

draw lines that reset respect,
encourage care, listen to needs,
recognize the treasure we seek
is in humanity’s survival?

(Submitted for Ragtag Community’s daily prompt: blast, and Fandango’s: draw.  Image from personal collection.)

Smoking Pit

Cigarette butts
no longer linger
concrete, but
I swear the cloud
of smoke lingers,
the sweat of adolescent
anxiety – the suffocating
pressure to comply –

Names escape,
but I remember
smugness and
rivalry, and
the spine-crawling fear
of confrontation,
and indisputable
in my mind
are the scars
of being so alone.

(Written for Twenty Four’s 50 word Thursday prompt.  Image supplied by Deb Whittam.)

Beauty Routine

Plump the lips
pad the ass,
pull abs in

Push-up bras
and false eyelash,
botox, and brows

Make us pretty
much less witty –
do not overdo

Natural is rave
naked is yuck –
to find perfection

choose a routine
that sculpts and
shapes, then lie.

(dVerse quadrille prompt is yuck,  Ragtag Community is plump, Fandango offers routine, Daily Addictions is apparent.)

Mindfulness

Even as we harvest
the fruits of our endeavors,

as the leaves of summer
give over to golden dreams

and light reaches through
gathering clouds, illuminating,

celebrating; we must not forget
that we are a part of this living

miracle, that our lives, in harmony
with Nature, deserve reverence.

The Lady Calls It

Shipwrecked –
tossed ashore by blatant lies,
women’s cries lost
in political gales

Collins says
#MeToo
is valid,
should be continued

Just not this time

Might as well
throw one life preserver
for the millions drowning

Hope GOP have
their own life jackets
handy for the tsunami
that is imminent.

(Written for 50 Word Thursday.)

It’s Not That I Don’t See…

Somewhere, searchers are combing through rubble
to find signs of life, or remains, while I fret over the
size of my belly, bloated by excess, filled by gluttony.

Somewhere, a mother pleas for the return of her child,
a daughter stolen, held by authority, while another cries
because her toddler’s coiffed appearance fails to win.

Somewhere, their village destroyed by war, families
flee to find peace, encounter rejection, and worse,
while a son murders his sister to honour family pride.

Somewhere, parents wait with terror-seized hearts
as a gun-wielding lunatic holds their children hostage,
while businessman fatten their wallets over arms sales.

Perspective tells me that I am unjustified to complain
over my first world problems, am selfish to bemoan
the trivialities of my self-centered existence, that I just

need to shift my viewpoint, look outside myself, and see
that inequalities and hardships beg for my compassion,
alter my focus and become a beacon for the world; and,

yet, I am overwhelmed by the tragedy that floods my
large screen TV, desensitized by the staged and unstaged
images of brutality, tired of the unsubstantiated claims

of terrorism, and the political garnering for votes; cannot
bear to hear of one more gun attack in a country where
the right to bear arms is confused with personal security;

feel out of control when I listen to stories of great loss,
am compelled to shut off the media, turn my attention to
self-criticism, and find a manageable issue close to home.

(Tonight is Open Link Night at dVerse.  I am also linking this up with One Woman’s Quest II weekly challenge: attention.  “It’s Not That I Don’t See” first appeared September 2016.)

Independent, En-Masse

A familial gathering – rock balanced upon rock – stands at the Rideau’s edge, one amongst several such groupings, each a masterpiece unto itself, and yet one small, insignificant creation begs attention: a small duck-like figure, turned away from the rest, facing north rather than south, as if it hears a different call.   Even its companion, hesitant, looks back towards the family, for reassurance.  Body of fossil, head carved by erosion – he ponders other horizons. Even the artist – albeit working with spartan tools – could not bend the will of this little being, could not mold him into conformity.  He is childlike innocence and brash determination, and I imagine that as the sun goes down and the tourists disappear, he glides through the water, travels against the current and revels in the freedom.

At the river’s edge
figures rise, stoic families
hailing passersby.

(Written for dVerse pub, and for Ragtag Communities prompt: spartan.  The balanced rock sculptures are the work of John Felice Ceprano and can be found at the Remic Rapids in Ottawa, Ontario.)

 

Trees Are Meant to Branch

Our roots are spreading,
the umbrella of our tree broadening –
Muslims now amongst our beloveds

a progression, nurtured by
a Divine plan – trees are meant
to branch – hearts’ capacity unlimited

an outcome that evolved – not because
of that day when the impact reverberated
across borders, dislodging fears – but despite it

Praise goes to youth, whose willingness
to embrace possibility beyond stereotypes,
beyond hatred, opened doors, enticed

this hometown gal, and a backward father
to set aside prejudice (ignorance, really), and invite
the light of love to transform darkened passages.

brave souls, willing to defy the legacy
of downed towers, the lies of politicians –
carving out a path for an enlightened future.

(Written for dVerse, who on the anniversary of 9/11 challenged us to go back to a previous poem penned on this date and write a new one, based on one line.  I revisited  Renovating the Psyche from 9/11/2016 and chose the line:  “roots spreading outwards, Muslims now amongst our beloveds.” )