Narcissus and Echo

A tragic flaw
does not always a hero make.

She thought it did –
despite her beauty,
despite the Zeus’ who pursued her;
she set her sights on the unattainable.

Was it self-degradation or the sting
of a jilted spouse that tarnished her –
either way she lost her voice,
her autonomy shattered.

He tolerated her –
to a point – let her fawn
perversely intrigued,
no doubt flattered,
by her willingness to cloy.

Love was not in his DNA –
he lacked the missing component
so wrapt in his own drama;
he had no empathy –
no capacity for compassion.

Was it Nemesis, or
did they just reap what they’d sewn –
for theirs was a tragedy of Greek proportions –

the more distant he grew
the more she desired him
like a flower, too delicate to grasp

the less she demanded for herself
the less visible she was to him –
meaningless words lost on deaf ears

Sadly, theirs is a common tale –
though mythical in its telling, the patterns
repeat – love continues to elude.

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(Pretty sure you can guess today’s prompt.  Hope you enjoyed.)

 

 

Passion Exposed

Seduced –
the virility of youth
irresistible even for an old
duck like me –  so unexpected,
relentless, I ignore exhaustion
lean into the fantasy, allow
desire to embrace me,
cross a boundary,
surrender…

step up
to the stage,
bare-chested,
shameless, speak
into the mic, reveal
my words: those
childlike bits
of myself;
hope

my passion
does not offend,
the blatant sexuality
of my tongue, my voice,
raw desire, peaked arousal,
does not mar my reputation,
pathetic, really, that one so past
her prime should dare to grace the
boards – surely a younger woman’s game.

(Passion Exposed was penned in December of 2016 after attending my first poetry open mic.  Having been a closet writer for most of my life, I still find it uncomfortable at times to share my words.)

Retreat

Immersed in the spiritual –
not yet fully present –
participating,
considering
new beginnings,
openings

so much easier
to go back to sleep
leave the living
to the younger
more energetic

generations
surpassing me
clued in to
technology,
modern nuances

yet, even they
slumber, lulled
by a confidence
I too once donned,
before immersing
myself in the spiritual.

Building on Uneven Ground

We are builders –
constructing isolation
with fortified walls
imagining security
in separation.

We are battlers –
projecting foes
in outer forces
ignoring the dangers
of faulty foundations.

How warped are the stories
on which we lay our floors;
how misguided our efforts?

We need level ground
on which to erect stability,
a balanced understanding
cemented in commitment,

a universal, master plan
motivated by communal
accessibility, developed
with careful consideration.

Alas, we are consumers –
trusting the blueprints
of those whose architectural
designs are self-serving.

What price will we pay
for residing in a house
dangerously slanted
towards destruction?

Snapshot of L.A.

Batman cruises by in a compact,
adjusts his speed for a photo-op,
and the woman in front applies
mascara without slowing down –
all on the way to Los Angeles.

My eyes burn in the smog
where traffic creeps along
the freeway like post- concert
attendees pushing their way
out of the crowd, and I wonder

are they visitors like us, or
trapped in this swell of compressed
stress, immune to the claustrophobia
of L.A. where elegance poses next to
the indecorous, apparently desensitized?

We lunch in Marina del Ray –
watch grebes swim amongst
the yachts, while the woman
next to us, with over-plumped
lips, has difficulty enunciating

and I try not to gawk, but she
is loud and sends shards of light
scattering everytime she moves
drawing attention to blonde,
boobs, and leathered skin.

We drive up Sunset Boulevard,
entranced by the towering trees,
and stop at a neighbourhood
Starbucks, where moms in spandex
buy frothy drinks for school-aged kids

and mutter under grimacing breath
about ex-husbands, and rigorous
routines; and we ponder the cost
of real estate, as we coast past homes
sets atop hilltops with ocean views

before rejoining the parking-lot
highway, inching our way back
to the suburbs, still choking on
far-reaching pollutants, mountain
views clouded in a haze of disdain.

(Our visit to L.A. is documented on One Woman’s Quest II.)

Social Media Blues

LinkedIn wants me to connect
with former colleagues, ignores
the fact that they haven’t opted
to reach out to me, fails to
recognize the state of my disability
sets me on the margins of society

Facebook likes to remind me
of things I did in the past, drags
up conversations, or outings
no longer valid, refuses to
honour the value of letting go –
that moving on is moving up.

twitter wakes me up at night
when I’ve forgotten to mute
the phone, announces likes
and new follows of people
I do not know, rubbing salt
in the wounds of isolation

instagram has shut me out
seems I constantly forget
my password, but they never
fail to send me updates of
the picture perfect events
of those whose minds work.

I sometimes visit snapchat,
whose messages make me laugh
and I know that there are others
more hip to possess, but just
the thought of sign ups has me
reeling with new-found anxiety

Please don’t misunderstand me,
of social media, I’m a fan; it’s just
that I don’t need further indications
of my compromised state, and in the
flesh interactions are a preference,
so technology needs to step down.

(The Daily Post prompt today is fact.)

Conflict of Peace

We are peacemakers,
declaring commitment;
celebrating life, diversity.

We stand at the water’s edge,
contemplate forever, pray for
serenity, believe in harmony.

Watch as past dalliances,
like old lovers, drift away,
become memories forgotten.

We are supporters, lift up
the down trodden, extend
hearts and hands in aid.

Rescuers, fearless vessels
surfing the ocean of tears
saving lives for the cause.

Withdrawal is preferential
to conflict, introspective
in our peace-loving stance.

We are hosts, expecting
hospitality, unprepared
for hostility, taken aback

Submission lost to fear;
partnering with revenge
spoon out poison, turn

the tables, defend sanctity,
reposition selves as victims
flee our former stance; attack.

Alarmists engage in paranoia,
see only turbulent skies at
the water’s edge, disbelieve

We must hold fast to ideals,
embrace humanity’s potential
be responders, not reactors

Recover our sanctity, reunite
in a vision of peace, remember
that celebration trumps strife.

(Originally published in July of 2106, Conflict of Peace was a favourite of readers for sometime, now ousted by more recent work.)