We are guardians,
caregivers charged
with ensuring a future
innocence cradled
in our arms, hope,
like an infant, trusting
our choices, embracing
our decisions; let us fill
our hearts with promise
set our minds to forging
a path worthy of the lives,
not yet weaned, that follow.
Have opted for a minimalist existence –
efficiency dependent on accessibility –
still suffering the effects of disease, age.
Used to dwell in the sarcasm of fixed roots,
keep-up-with-the-status-quo, thought that
swapping furniture equated with renewal
Now the only fitting-in we do relates to
rig size and whether or not the next stop
on the road can accommodate our home
Have sold off the real estate, motivated
by simplicity; seek vistas that restore
our souls, preferably with a water view.
We are comfortable marrieds, adapting
new perspectives, easing out of the shell –
shock of former agendas, rat-race lives.
As mothers, who are concerned,
as sons, who are seeking guidance,
as daughters, for whom our fears mount?
I don’t have the answers, maybe
not even the beginning of a response,
but I’m trying to get through to some level
of sensibility, need to know what it takes
to instill respect, to restore reverence for
all that in is feminine; seems we are numbed
lulled into complacency, brainwashed by
a consumer-driven machine that pumps
out sexuality as entertainment, infiltrates
our collective psyche, equates exploitation
with attainment, debasement with reward;
are we so desensitized as to not recognize
that merely turning off the television, or
ignoring the images in the check out line
still amounts to complicity; what amount
of surgical intervention is required to
eradicate this societal disease; restore
compassion and caring to our culture?
(This poem, inspired by a series of dreams, responds to the The Daily Post prompt: conversation.)
Be compassionate when leading,
encourage community,
promote vision,
invite discussion
remember that pleasing
is not always possible
and that balance
calls for give and take
that needs are real
and genuine emotion
in times of personal grief
can be a catalyst for others
beware hidden agendas
when conducting business;
help young people find
their own secret gardens
never try to be all things
for all people, instead
lend an ear, a shoulder,
a hug – be a facilitator
all is doable, when ego
is willing to sidestep accolades
in favour of a shared responsiblity
and service to the whole.
They set up classrooms in malls,
call them “alternative”, cater to
those who have fallen through
proverbial cracks, teens unfit
for institutional learning…
I was wayward once, could not
value education while teenage
angst pushed me overboard –
home life too quixotic for
reasonable expectations of
comportment …
My heart reaches out
to those displaced, for whom
common curriculum does not gel –
I long to meet with them on concrete
benches, over cups of Tim Horton’s
lending a sympathetic ear…
School is not the defining moment
the last stop before our final destination;
it is a stepping stone, one of many paths
that lead to discovery, to definition,
troubled souls crave soothing…
maybe, if I could light a torch
for just one child, build a bridge
of hope, the girl in me would be
quieted, reassured, healed –
validation ensuring a future for all.
(Image: classroom.synonym.com)
I am teacher, tending to
budding feminists – persecuted
for their giftedness, depravity
a stink that trails them – defined
by sanitary napkin advertisements,
comfort ridiculed; I falter, my own
rage stifling responsibility…
I am grandmother, overseeing
the growth of a new era, promoting
autonomy, watch as dependence
settles in, how we whitewash human
depravity and forget the babies –
desperate for what? Am at wit’s end
protesting the depths of society’s fall.
I am crone, observer of young
women, whose ambitions rise,
yet, in face of injustice, are quieted,
we are untrained at cleansing
the excrement of humiliation,
have too long borne obligation
as a demonstration of our fitness,
cling to a losing illusion of control.
It’s time to resurrect
our confidence,
recapture the sensitivity
of intuitive knowing,
acknowledge the power
of our resiliency;
we are women
merciful companions
healers attending
Divinity’s passage,
peace-seekers
directing life’s journey.
Too long have we equated
self-esteem with
patriarchal agendas,
disappointed with
our inability to meet
media standards,
blamed ourselves
for divorce,
disease,
staying home
to raise the children.
It’s time to honour
our strength, restore
feminine worth,
align our resources,
we are iron grace,
mindful caregivers,
mate with intention,
our vulnerability,
our sensuality,
aspects of intrinsic
wisdom, we are
keepers of the dream
beings steeped
in mystery:
it is time.
(Image artist: Shikha Agnihotri Pandey )
Is this progress,
this decision to uproot,
caste possessions aside,
free ourselves of ties?
Can his dependency,
my dependency, endure
the transition, released
from former justifications?
We are companions
embarking on adventure,
companions retiring past
lies, redefining possibility
or is this more of the same,
artfully camouflaged –
a continuance of flight
from tyrannical origins?
The paths behind are jagged,
wrought with rocks and crevices
and scarred riddles, and yet,
have we not survived, thrived?
The road ahead is expansive
our home an ever-changing
landscape as wide as a continent
our minds eager to absorb…
this is progress,
we are unburdened,
free-spirited, submitting
to new tests of truth.
(Image: www.ebookers.com)
Momma never taught me
to respect myself, to value
my femininity; she said:
Boys will be boys, and girls,
I heard, are entertainment,
but I ain’t no games table –
constructed for versatility,
adaptable to men’s whims,
waiting around for the game
to give me life – no hostess
for contests of male superiority,
not an object to be manipulated –
juveniles playing with sticks
looking to sink their balls
in my pockets – I am done
with delinquent impudence,
tired of objectified attention,
need to lock it all away, until
I can rid myself of these
counterproductive sentiments,
find me an authority to override
Momma’s tainted perceptions.
(Image: britainfirst.net)
(
While babes slumber,
calm, unconscious,
dreamers manifest
Goddess power –
pray for their ill,
harness a creator
an ancient dwelling
(ignore the presence
of trios – ascension
a slow plod) – choose
to honour the arrival
of beauty’s essence
the light of healing,
creativity expressed,
illuminators, artists
Grace encompassing
compassion, nocturnal
inspiration honouring
the aged, the ailing,
all beloveds, respect
for this blessed life.
(Image: Pinterest)
One Woman's Quest 