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.
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.)
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. Â I am also linking this up with One Woman’s Quest II weekly challenge: attention. Â “It’s Not That I Don’t See” first appeared September 2016.)
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. Â Even its companion, hesitant, looks back towards the family, for reassurance. Â 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. Â 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. Â The balanced rock sculptures are the work of John Felice Ceprano and can be found at the Remic Rapids in Ottawa, Ontario.)
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.” )
Rain-drenched
roads kick up
blinding mist,
Eight hours –
construction,
accidents,
snarly traffic
ignoring
neon:
Adjust speed for weather
We arrive
at five –
multi-lanes
jammed –
Quick!
Wrong lane!
Merge right!
Weary commuters –
tourists
a rush-hour pain –
graciously acquiesce.
Welcome
to Ottawa.
(Inspired by today’s road trip and written for dVerse’s quadrille: quick, and Ragtag Community’s: grace)
This actor,
this ego
demanding
submissive idolatry
Humanity is distracted –
controversy, like celebrity,
vying for social attention.
Opposition barks
obediently in response
to dick-waving antics
their questions only
inciting more rage –
he is inaccessible
gloating,
publicity-sapping
ignores the plight
of dreamers,
of marginalized
human rights
inopportune
for his pocket-
lining agenda
Heroic action
is called for –
there is strength
in quiet amassing
of information
the harvesting
of underhanded
self-serving
motivations
this monstrosity
must be de-throned
before democracy
is completely defiled.
(It’s open link night at dVerse, and I have compiled this poem from the prompts of Fandango (question), Ragtag Community (bark), and Daily Addictions (controversy). Â Oh, and maybe I’m feeling a little riled by the gong show coming out of Washington.)
Back rested against post,
the figure guards the median –
poised with cardboard sign,
a simple plea for help.
Positions himself amid
gridlocked targets – usually,
I look away, disquieted,
but today I do not, wondering
what I could possibly give
this man that would lift him
from his plight –
surely others have tried,
and, yet, here he is
day after day
the same –
and
I am struck
with realization –
that we are not
all that different
he and I
both trapped in unhealthy
patterns, having adopted
personas that once served –
but now weigh heavily
with the stench of permanence
Does he not know it’s all
an illusion – a game we play
wherein we are the pawn?
I don’t know it either –
turn away, defeated.
(Frank is hosting at dVerse tonight and the jive is frustration and heartbreak.)
Where does a woman store her dreams
while children need chauffeuring
and parents’ health is in decline?
What goal does she dare strive for,
that won’t supersede obligation,
nor tax already waning energy?
Why is it that her efforts –
exceeding expectations –
often fail, demanding more?
How does she keep hope alive
when illness usurps functioning
and the off-ramp is miles behind?
Who will carry her when winter’s grasp
makes passage undependable, and
she has no choice but to surrender?
(V.J.’s challenge this week is questions.)
(RonovanWrites Haiku Challenge prompt is hero / coward.)
One Woman's Quest 