We decry loss of innocence
whilst downplaying our sins
Not news.
Blame is a tricky game…
Better to practice accountability
than to capture the podium…
Changing the world
inside out.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Category: culture
Roadmap for Change
Everywhere collisions:
Mindless consumerism
tripping up ambitions
defeating progress
Social networking
mutilating communication
disrupting movement
Consciousness obliterated
by blind compliance
intrinsic motivation extinct
Victims splayed,
flayed, bloody,
numb
Values – not possessions – endure
understanding eliminates dominance
integrity ensures power for all.
Mindfulness calms chaos
quenches grasping urgency
restores hope, direction
Purpose harmonized
with communal focus
realizes potential
releases greatness
(Image my own)
Fame’s Lament
Wrestle me from the spotlight
there is comfort in the dark
Shadowed corners are fertile
where nimble imagination feeds
Weary of the light; I beg of you,
drag this scorched ego
Where edges softly disintegrate
and oblivion refills lost bliss
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Birthmark
Shunned for her sin
a young figure
rubs her swelling belly
compulsion driven by fear
Tremors from within
stunt her movement
uncertainty paralyzing
her words…
She is unwed,
repulsive to a society
reeking with ineptitude –
righteousness negating action
Unsuspecting, the baby arrives
emits a scratchy cry –
filling her lungs with hope
and anticipation, trusting
Does not know
in her stark nakedness
that her tragedy is set,
life will not embrace and provide
Poverty has marked her
for a life of hardship –
the pious turn their backs
she is, after all, born of sin.
(Image my own)
Wounded Feminine
On entering the tunnel, I see her –
pallor a notable shade of ghostly
Tattered, her dress hangs in billowing
folds of transparency; she beckons
No words pass between us, but
her haunting gaze begs audience
So, I bear witness to her tale –
a gruesome re-enactment of her death
Slow and agonizing, her femininity
scalded and tortured till flesh festered
and infection drove her to madness –
no solace offered, no medicine rendered
No more than a child, I now see –
a tragic retelling of innocence turned victim
Do not look away, her spirit commands,
the suffering continues, and I will haunt
Till justice recognizes the crime
and restitution restores balance.
(Reena’s Xploration offered the opening line, and Eugi’s Weekly Prompt – notable– added to the narrative. This apparition appeared to me in that tunnel between waking and sleep, begging that I share her story. Image my own)
Soldiers Tanka
Sacrifice belies
original plan – the young
overlook fine print
sign up for adventure -war
renders them heroes – souls torn
(Today, we remember those who have fallen – heroes of war.
Photo mine)
My Body Poetic
Objectify my body –
I am anti-poetic –
this shore untameable
I am fertile, yes
a producer of life,
subject to tides
and winds, shamed
by man’s propensity
to overpower.
Let me not suffer
the consequences
of inhumane laws.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson.
Image my own)
Disillusioned
How did this chasm,
this canyon of lies
become our normal?
Facts, once the sword
of intellect, redundant –
we fight with hyperbole
Voices raised, egos puffed –
I long for calm, doubt
we have the wherewithal
to bridge the divide.
(Image my own)
Dream Power
Tiger stalks
dreamtime –
meaning elusive
I am technology
dependent –
AI stimulating
connection
Sense and instinct
shelved in favour
of pings and beeps
Only in sleep
do I glimpse
real power.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson
Image my own)
The Cook
She’s in the kitchen
cleaning, prepping
sweetness, wishes
to nurture childlike
longings – sugar laden
gifts, honeyed chops
hooks her men with
culinary preciseness –
as legend prescribes
wants a strong, reliable
type to stir her ovaries
keep her dishing up love
Disappointment, like raw egg
drips off china plates –
shame of misadventures
she cannot scrub away
only serves tea now –
the smell of liquor
mingled with cigarettes
in lecherous calloused
hands turns her stomach
avoids the coffee maker
in the same way, despises
the way the bitter brew
makes her head spin –
wits need to be in order
has settled now as hostess
caters to near strangers
whose attention, riveted
by television screens, are
lulled by the rhythmic
sounds of her sanitizing
while stew simmers in pot,
dreams of romance shelved.
(Originally titled “Hatched”, this poem first appeared here in July, 2017. I am submitting an edited version for Reena’s Xploration challenge: Stranger in a strange land. Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 