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)
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)
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)
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)
Intensity grips the bat-
grit interwoven with anxiety
Nothing less than a home run
wins approval in this boy’s game
The lone girl, I am aflame
with rage of inequality
(Took a coveted bat and
tight fist to get me here)
Dig my feet in and stare down
the pitcher, ready to ignite the field.
(Image my own)
Righteousness
speaks not of
Divine intent
Indigenous suffer
ungodly loss from
Christian hands
A Muslim community
mourns the brutality
of sanctimonious wrath
Hate is the invention
of mortal minds –
Divine love is a river
that flows for all.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own.)
I lied.
The initial seed of disappointment has fermented,
and in the absence of confrontation, grown roots
written sorrowful chapters
conclusion: unworthiness
Why couldn’t I just have said:
I don’t understand
this makes me unhappy?
Where did I learn that prevarication protects
that I alone am responsible for emotions
that I do not matter?
Decades later
I still cannot uproot the weed
the lie remains.
(Image my own)
Inwardly we glow…
so it’s said
I shudder
ignorance grating
like branches
on my windowpane
Hope is a fox
mesmerizes,
draws me out,
then disappears
If inwardly we glow…
then why am I so cold?
(Image my own.)
Big band galas
Seaside dancehalls
Swing dancing
Men in uniform
Memory-soaked
daydreams like
shots of adrenaline
arthritic fingers tap
to a distant tune.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson.
Image my own)
Nothing about the job intimidates him –
has lived the ups and downs of mental health –
besides, he cries for the children, abandoned
who jump from home to institution, lost.
Nods at warnings about attachment
knows all the drills of the hospital
feels certain he’s found his place –
is hit hard by the rejection
Seems personal experience, and the willingness
to speak the truth about stigma, shunning
and how many stay silent has no place
on a ward where old school rules.
(Written for Reena’s Xploration challenge #175. Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 