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). 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.)
Set the stones
with reverence
for the directions
for the spirits
for the elders –
stories,
like sacred threads,
weave legacy,
Bodies decline,
but spirit is fire –
built with sacred intent,
sparks become flames;
fire has ears
hears our prayers
transforms
the message –
praises
for the gods,
inspiring peace.
(Sacred Fire is dedicated to my mentor and friend, Emmagene, who taught me the importance of ritual and ceremony. I am linking up to 50 Word Thursday, dVerse Open Link, Fandango’s inspire, Ragtag community’s elder, and Daily Addictions’ decline.)
How to separate oneself
from church, from religion –
the indoctrination, like skin
so firmly attached…yet…
there is testimony,
and doubt stirring,
encircling –
stories of violations, and
a niggling disquiet…
a memory…no…wait –
surely it is only the sway
of this modern outcry,
the power of suggestion
influencing mind…
(Abuse perpetrated in the name of religion continues to surface. I submit this piece in response to the gracious promptings of 50 Word Thursday, Fandango, and Ragtag Community. Picture is from personal collection.)
“You’re an enigma”
mother would tsk,
ushering me out of the door,
brown bag lunch,
book bag dragging,
to catch a ride across town
a special classroom –
desks pushed together
formed quads, and
walls retracted,
created one large room,
the bustle of activity
a constant
no readers here,
or math sheets,
it was free learning,
cross-curricular,
learned about history
from novels,
math and science
through applications,
wrote poetry,
read Shakespeare,
enacted plays,
and while some went to shop
or home economics,
I tackled Mensa puzzles
we debated
current affairs,
grew a social conscience,
progressed individually
“Men don’t like smart women,”
was all my mother could say,
shaking her head with disgust
at this daughter, who spouted
politics with her father, and
whose career goals,
prepubescent,
aspired beyond the 3 k’s.
(Penned for dVerse, hosted tonight by Amaya Engleking. I’ve also snuck in Daily Addictions prompt: enigma.)
Found my first love
holding hands
walking home
from school –
grade one.
Father’s grip
crushed,
controlled,
warned against
disobedience,
held on until
compliance
was assured.
My sister’s hand –
frail flesh stretched
over aching bones –
clung to mine
until her internal heat
burned the touch
and I had to let go
while she surrendered
her last breath.
A lover’s hand
lacks stillness –
strokes and cajoles,
employs sensuality
to invoke desire.
Held my children’s hands
with my heart –
never wanting to let go,
prideful possession.
My granddaughter’s fist –
still pink from birthing –
wrapped around my finger
gripping the unknown
with the ferocity of
one hungry for life –
My husband’s hand
reaches out for mine
conveys support
for unsteady legs
offers strength
to propel me forward.
Hands convey
what the mind cannot –
a secret language
nuanced for life’s moments,
leave deep impressions.
(Tonight is Open Link night at dVerse, and our host Lillian has invited us to celebrate with her, as August 9th marks many National celebrations, one of which is National Hand Holding Day. To see the others and join in, visit here.)
“Why do we have to learn about something that doesn’t effect us?” the small, blonde student asked me. “I mean, it was ages ago, and not even in our country.”
She might as well have run me through the heart with a stake, the pain of her words struck me so deeply. I considered her: an average student, indulged, youngest child, modestly dressed, like many of her age. Disinterested.
Because without our awareness, and interference, history repeats itself, I wanted to say. Because nothing that happens in the world happens in isolation; we are not immune. Because ignorance makes victims of us all.
Instead, I sent the class home with an assignment: ask questions, call your grandparents, find someone who remembers, and be prepared to share what you have discovered.
***
History foretells –
casts eerie shadows over
disregard’s future.
(dVerse’s Haibun Monday is hosted by Frank J. Tassone, who challenges us to write a piece for Hiroshima Day.)
One Woman's Quest 