Category: culture

Lights and Shadows

City lights used to draw her,
unafraid of seedy corners,
she’d dress her sexuality
in understated costumes,
a long-legged confidence.

Strutted with the best, cat
eyes – a tigress prowling,
stalking a prey she could
not define, no man could
tame her, no women grasp

the coldness of her heart.
Travelled with an entourage,
first on the dance floor, last
to leave, she was desirable,
a temptress, her vibrancy

an unwavering beacon for
the dispossessed, wore her
independence like a medal,
vowed never to be trapped,
a promise she’d never keep –

Her spark is only legend now,
crowds having all dispersed,
she dwells in shadows, a bent
figure whose glow has faded,
movement stilted, she creeps

avoids bright lights and city’s
core, dislikes gatherings of
three of more, finds strength
on the arm of another, frailty
condemning her as a burden.

Dismissed now, she is society’s
disposable, unremarkable to
behold, the trail of her history
all but lost, save for the occasional
flash of wildness in clouded eyes.

(Image: grammywritesblog.wordpress.com)

Compulsive

Malls possess a certain allure –
contentment-in-a-bag offerings,
an opportunity to escape reality,

except gossip travels in crowds
and I tend to shop for obligations,
will latch myself onto any drama

and take ownership  – it’s small
town training:  I am a passenger
on the responsibility rail – would

kill my own mother to gain lost
authority, be the person in the
know…lose these thoughts of

failure to the distress of disbelief
that we missed the signs, lacked
insight, could have been there for

someone more needy… Have you
seen me, browsing stories?  Career
changers are good, fired up youth,

father’s foibles… Don’t be taken
aback, I can be officious, intentions
not misguided – just need to fix one

piece of brokenness to assure myself
all is not totally lost – this shattered
core, this fictional characterization.

How much simpler life would be
if I shopped like normal people,
found relief in mall discounts…

(Image: tropicalcyclocross.com)

Zoo Life

How else would you define us but a zoo:
this ragged attempt to appear socially fit?

I drag my children with me, expectations
formed from still life exhibits, picture –

perfect cameos of happy lives, poised
as any good television family might…

Who hasn’t had a rough ride, disembarked
and vowed never to repeat sins?  Hold on

to what you have kids, I warn; be wary of
life:  it’s what I’ve learned – tried to change

the tableau, inject creativity into freeze
frames; snared in webs of my weaving,

like the black widow entrapping my prey,
instinct releasing venom, plots spiralling

out of control; am prepared to wipe clean
the past, but stumble, lose grip, shamed

beg my daughters to look away, too late,
tension mounts, threaten to consume us

our dreams, the source of our imaginations
and I listen to the screams, helpless, until

one child takes up the cry, offers herself,
as I would have once, forces me to sit by,

worry my only companion, while she sinks
deeper into the hell of this artificially caged

confine; our connection lost – unprepared
am I, with all the wrong resources, clinging

to damnable passivity, alone, wretched,
guilt-ridden, afraid for generations unborn –

and as I turn away, in despair, I catch sight
of her, my child, revelling in her story, vital –

no crisis – just a brilliant young woman,
unbound by the restraints of this zoo.

(Image: obutecodanet.ig.com.br)

Love In Aisle Nine

Lust ignores warning signals,
fancies itself a savvy consumer,
commits minor infractions with
confidence, sidestepping anxiety.

Loneliness – near-sighted – shops
without discernment, fails to
recognize that all life is transient,
and patience is the key to harmony.

Love – the main attraction – is not
a lone chauffeur, a self-serving
commander, feeding off helplessly
disabled, regressing into insanity;

nor is it initiated by determination,
a product of drive – brokenness
barreling through hurt’s congestion,
misinterpreting openings; the path

to intimacy requires compliance,
obeys service, calms egos, a slow
non-consumer based passage: no
bargains in the commitment dept.

(Image: imagineinfinitycoaching.wordpress.com)

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.

(Image: www.aspersstratford.co.uk)

 

 

Always a Teacher

Set me on the open road,
encourage me to cross borders;
I am hungry for knowledge,
to hear a higher calling.

Cannot tolerate chained-to-
chairs education, imposed
immobility, socratic hierarchy
demanding conformity

spoon-fed compliance –
am too much my father’s
daughter, born rebellious
unable to mold myself
to prescribed slots

would rather initiate
discussion, engage, listen –
let shoes emote, tell their
story, develop compassion

never felt more than a visitor
in institutions, marks adequate
but brain absent, spirit numbed –
more punishment for delinquency
than awakening..

How can we convey the future,
instill optimism in prospects,
when the language of education
is secondary to how students
communicate in real-time?

Minds are energetic, curiosity
a given, youth crave elevation,
opportunity, measure themselves
against a system defined by rows.

How can I cross this barrier
of disability, open the dialogue
to ignite passions, propel learning
to open road scenarios, encourage
minds to cross borders?

(Image: www.abc.net.au)

Glass Caskets

What mysteries lie in ancestral roots,
what clues to illuminate the dysfunction
that permeated our familial ties, cursed
us with a pervasive sense of perversity?

We are a portrait of deviancy: still life
torsos, dismembered from birth, non-
conforming hormonal structures denied
reception in the aftermath of Victorianism.

An aunt, who despite her outer female
attributes earned the nickname Billy
tried her best to acclimatize to girlie legs,
distracted herself with industry, could not

bear the swirl of dresses, nor the reek
of men’s cologne, banished herself to
far off lands; followed a brother – also
optically illusive – knew himself as Liz,

adapted arms and legs of steel to bury
his essence, donned military rags, and
macho outbursts; failed to elude his
inner truth. Raised by this disembodied

woman, whose embittered cries echoed
through our hollow chambers, shattered
any attempts at compassion; we were
observers at a funeral, where the casket,

made of glass, held a lonely figure – head
and shoulders solely visible – all but dead,
suspended, like a science experiment gone
terribly wrong, abandoned, in a gel-like bath –

embalmed dysmorphia on private display.
Lacked the resources to understand the
complexity of their sufferings, too entwined
to be rational – ignorance blinded by shame.

Only now, in the light of current revelations,
is the depth of our misguided conclusions
made tragic – wish I could reach back through
time, adjust the settings to acceptance, but

lack the currency, have no resources, other
than these words, to communicate the sheer
brutality of discrimination – have witnessed
the bloodied carnage of authenticity oppressed.

(Image: Pinterest)

 

 

Black Madonna

Remember that autumn
we drove up to Campbell River,
like teenagers skipping out of class –
a cackle of women, spirituality forming –
felt as if we had bided our time, willing
this union to occur – high on anticipation.

Giddy that our routine femininity had
been strewn across the barricades of
our socially careful existences – we were
like lesbian lovers unafraid to explore our
crevices, our souls hungering for release,
we were researchers, reinventing masks

adopted in formative years, stretching our
capacity to believe, awakened by the crones
among us, sisters united, standing in the
flood of our collective herstory, shedding
the padding of our religious upbringings,
teetering on the brink of a lost divinity –

weavers, once paralyzed by the guck of
patriarchal dictates, fear of ascension
retreating, we broke free, immersed in
Goddess splendour, felt the ecstasy of
true abandonment, were wild women
unrestrained, catalysts for change.

How is it that the passion faded so abruptly,
that motherhood and responsibility, and
the rigours of competing in daily life stripped
away the afterglow, smacked me back into
this rigid self-definition, prayerful, thankful,
yet lacking the empowerment of the island?

Have I stored her somewhere; is there even
a space within me capable of housing such
expansiveness, open to wading once again
in the waters of a lunar deity, willing to sacrifice
superficiality for the compassionate mystery
of the Black Madonna haunting my memory?

(Image: paradisefoundsantabarbara.com)

Language Is Not The Barrier

Bought tickets once for Spain,
planned to escape the fading
autumn golds to find brilliance
of Spanish hillsides, vibrancy
of villages, radiance of smiles.

Succumbed, instead, to illness
a fate whose grip defied urges
to flee, thrust us headlong into
the ravages of a blustery winter
remorseless in its stormy rage.

Only dream now of exotic locals,
of sun-baked vistas and cobbled
streets, of busy marketplaces and
houses tucked behind hidden doors
where mothers gather their broods

Motherhood, I imagine, universally
driven to offer comfort, provide
security, no matter the resources –
a call to protect the inner richness
of the family – places that draw me.

Envision plates of home cooked
delicacies, offerings delightful to
the eyes, aromatic, appetizing, and
likely beyond my ability to digest –
this disease imposing sensitivity.

Travelling is a catalyst for change:
exploring cultures, encountering
residents, inspires reflection, the
magic of communicating without
words – languages no barricade

I am marred now, an ungracious
guest – such is the sentence of
this disability – unable to bear the
disappointment on the faces of
those who would extend welcome.

(Image: www.expanish.com)

Prayer for Purpose

If transformation is my path,
then let me be in charge –
reverse this introspective
lull, cease this bystander’s
status, build new awareness,
embrace the fullness of spirit.

Give me legs that I may walk
amongst the gathering voices
brush shoulders with anti-hate
protestors, find my wings, wear
the cause to end racism, sexism,
fear as any spiritual crusader does.

There is need in the world –
extends beyond individual
agendas, compels us to play
a part, cut apathy in favour of
donning a coat of conviction,
deny ties of personal comfort

How can I help; drink from the
well of human connectedness
to quench this deep-seated
disparity; am confined to a
legacy of words, legs inert,
burdened with soul’s passion.

(Image: www.indianweekender.co.nz)