The man is rhino
mere stench of him
inspires fear
clears the room
We cower, quietly
captivated little mice
terrified he’ll call us out
bullied into submission
But this status quo
bears no permanence
time and circumstance
will topple the power
And once writhing
on his backside, who
will venture to help, and
who will leave him be?
(Original was written in 2020. Seems it still applies. Image my own)
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.
(I’ve been thinking about all the noise going on in political forums and wondering if we the people hadn’t best organize in order to protect ourselves from any unforeseen fallout. Not sure what that would look like, but losing my trust in ‘leadership’.)
My image.
Searching for the alchemy
to transform this chaos –
Do they understand depravity,
those who dwell in exurbs,
blinded by their own opulence?
Children are dying, pawns
in a political sham – I know
we’re tired, but now is not
the time to sleep.
(Art my own)
Who is at the table
negotiating peace?
A trans man
bares his brave chest
Is his flesh not
our flesh?
Indigineous mothers
cry for lost daughters
Is their plight
not our plight?
Shopkeepers moan
how long can we endure
the inequities
of an indifferent eye?
Child of mine
what future awaits
as I watch our progress
slide, painfully in reverse?
I want to be a beacon
of encouragement
believe that harmony
even exists
But the noise
in the streets
is deafening
truths trampled
The false prophets
the politicians
the blinding pull
of greed
There are none at the table
but anarchy’s decoys.
The stillness within these walls contrasts the frazzled buzzing in town. Shops lined with Christmas must-haves will entice those running on impulse. Buy, buy, buy! This season, more than any other, evokes a yearning for perfection. I am weary of it all, defiantly resisting the urge to dress and venture out for that one last thing. We will gather soon enough, exchange gifts, gorge ourselves on seasonal specialities. Afterward, I will be content to find a quiet corner, reflect and give thanks for another holiday season survived.
Christmas lights sparkle
We’re meant to be of good cheer –
Parched Spruce sheds its charm.
(Image my own)
How bright is the soul
that dares to stand alone
who gives voice to injustice
who is willing to sacrifice
self for a higher purpose?
What song might we sing
if such a spirit moved us?
(Image my own)
Watching the man wander
between home and industry,
the apron of his trade firmly fixed,
a sparkle of grit in his coiffed beard
The children, too, find joy
in his space, running between
house and workshop,
dog bounding at their feet
proudly on guard.
An outsider
and sink bound
she moves by rote
tea towel slung over shoulder
maintains a distance –
the dream is not hers.
She waits
weights
pretends
denies
Is losing her edges
and the parameters he sets
keep shifting, and
she is falling short
and the children, now hungry
tug on her apron for acknowledgment –
their father having taught them well —
she lives to meet their needs.
What’s for supper? they whine,
already preparing to grouse:
I don’t like that!
You liked it last week, she’ll reply
Weary, she feels herself fading
A meal on the table
and the man drags his feet –
would not award her respect
to appear on time
She’ll abide the disarray
while counting to herself
the minutes till this is over
and the children are in bed
and the man has returned to work
and nothingness is hers…
The numbness of lacking a dream.
(Art my own)
Following political tides –
mesmerized by neglect
of actual issues – playing
to an audience of moaners
(standard consumerist
plights) – glossing over
exploitation of women,
verbal slaughter of race,
religion and social values
Wondering about media –
who commandeer bias,
swallowing atrocities and
spewing contrived truths,
absent sound voice, or will,
jeopardizing the security
of so many trampled in
the race for what? Surely
not responsibility – what
lapse of conscience has
allowed hateful rhetoric
to bloody progress, no
consequences? Â Who will
bear the burden when in
the absence of morality
or respect for humanity,
the margins will increase?
The world quakes at the
failure to acknowledge
this broken path, see only
a devaluation of assets,
perceive a race that did
no more than increase
the monarchy of a king,
grant power to absolve
sins – a sleight-of-hand
trick – nothing to do with
the common habitants –
have so many questions
about how they’ll proceed.
(I wrote this poem in 2016. Same issue, different date. Surreal. Image my own)
That Covid is no more than the flu
that Climate change is a not real
that political speak is baffle
But my body, wracked with pain
knows too much about the nuances
of viral infections…this is no cold
And I’m too old to deny
that pollution has long threatened
our ecosystems and that reckless
disregard for our Earth home
has consequences
And that discernment
seems to have gone astray
in this Social Media whirl
We need to dig deeper
if we want sustainable change
I wish I could believe
that democracy is a given-
forget the wars and sacrifices
it took to get us here-
look away while it slips….
I wish I could have faith
that God had a hand in all this
but I can’t shake the feeling
that ignorance is bliss
and I know too much
(Image my own)
Can we acknowledge the richness of our resources:
that which sustains and endures? Always looking for the next shiny thing,
craving the exotic, the surprising… pushing purpose, movement… toward what? Telling ourselves we want lifelong commitment, and then moving on… emotions depleted. How do we define standards, intuit and reassemble a frame, counsel a collective, when expectations, creeping and woven into consciousness, resemble oppression? Hope -as sold by patriarchal mindsets, striving to mutilate common sense – is useless to revive when society teaches us to blindly follow the unintelligible…
Full moon a warning –
reverence for mystery
not conspiracy
Society’s light
waning on the back of lies-
hopelessness surreal
Hate is born from fear
disinformation a tool –
We are being played.
Step back! Cautions moon
observe under a new light –
reconnect with love.
(This poem, derived from a dream, started as a haibun – prose followed by a haiku – but the haiku multiplied. Guess we will call it a variation on a haibun. Image my own.)
One Woman's Quest 