Motoring through duality,
straining, in the middle –
socialized, yet reticent –
My heart is overflowing,
like an unwatched sink
falling apart, too much
Driving, the past’s rain
blurring any joy; feel
dirty, taut, losing control
Harm vanishes, comes
back around; hosting
good intentions, rank;
Progression entirely
defined by vulnerability
smothering celebration
Towed along by sweetness
of children, dining on their
innocence banishes despair.
Uplifted by invitations,
cherish the extended
kindness – crushed by
the inevitable no that
follows – limitations
a sad reality – energy
restricted to one or
two tasks, no more;
just thinking about it
exhausting enough.
What road lies ahead
for those of us cut down
too early – abandoned by
our bodies, left out of
life – while others veer
towards celebration,
vitality, shall we just
drift aimlessly, blood
and flesh dissolving
into the cosmic river
of being, imperceptible,
undefinable, forgotten?
(image:Â hdblackwallpaper.com)
Cooking challenges
are not for me –
inviting self-assured guests
to partake in my over-sized
oven-ready breasts –
show time!
Why should I
care about competition;
agree to act fancy,
ground myself down
with expectations?
I’d be afraid
my dependents
would run out from behind
my wings and topple
the repast before
it’s served up, along with
my reputation.
I have ample
bosom, but that doesn’t
mean I like to cook –
reservations are my specialty –
especially when fare tasters
speak Foodie
What kind of language
is that? Really?
I accept that I somehow
missed the gourmet gene,
that my home is not a
culniary castle;
would love to belong
to the fit and healthy
but renewal for me
is a place to lie my head,
having fun
horizontal.
(Image found on: Â gameofdiapers.com)
I’m the kind of hound that sniffs
out trouble;Â waddles through
roses to bury my nose
in excrement and roll in it.
Or is it that betrayal hounds me,
lures me with puppy dog eyes
tail wagging promises of loyalty
tricking my sentimental heart?
More like I’m the mutt begging
for scraps, ear scratching, or
belly rubbings, a canine whore
slutting for any attention.
Failure is a four-legged mangy
beast that caught my scent
long ago, trailed me, whining;
why did I agree to feed it?
No show dog here, just mixed
breed, scrap yard variety mongrel,
digging through the garbage heap
trying to find a dang old bone.
Used to be a teacher –
socially respectable –
graded papers, set
lesson plans, passed.
Now, locked out, I am
tossed like dirty laundry
heaped atop the sullied
citizen pile – a dirty,
tangled mess in need
of cleansing – those
indistinguishably ill
usurpers of public money.
Once, knew definitively
the standards set by
ministry guidelines,
curriculum based goals
now, am dispossessed,
mind lost, unable to focus
on details, angered by
trivialities, a nonentity.
How I miss the certainty
of rubrics, daily routines
set by hours of sweat –
sweet organization.
I am the student now,
submerged in this disarray
of emotional churning
unsolicited learning
environment in which
achievement is seldom
honored – no A’s awarded
for surviving life tests.
(Image: nutleywatch.com)
Pardon the mess, but currently
renovating the psyche, moving
rape to a separate apartment,
trying to make room for God.
Heart is the crux of my home,
space for recreation essential,
my family is growing, roots
spreading outwards, Muslims
now amongst our beloveds.
I need to be present – useful
to communicate without
appearing challenged – hope
the elephant in the room
does not describe me, signs
of burning startling – smoking
is not permitted here – breath
is a requirement; I live here!
Dare I reveal, make a scene?
I’ve made my bed, better to
stay conservative, constrict
airways; don’t need much to
get by: a modest income,
marriage insurance, quiet
appliances, easy navigation.
Post overhaul, I’m hoping for
less complications, more flow,
compartmentalized sanity so
that God will stop questioning.
(Image:Â http://watersofnoah.blogspot.ca/2012/03/big-rock.html)
Get back to work! Bravado punches,
but my pick up is shelved – would love
to wheel out of here and take flight –
and interview skills are ungrounded,
fear I will let fly unfiltered gibberish.
Go for it! Boisterousness cajoles –
but boldness is dangerous, and pushy
only puts up walls; shifting gears might
be an option, but the road ahead’s a steep
decline, and I have to carefully find footing.
You have to try! Good-heartedness offers,
but the path and I are both handicapped,
movement needs support, and my focus
is failing – am more tortoise than hare –
regressing into this pedestrian existence.
You can’t just give up! Impatience scowls,
but not only is the party of energetics with
its social antics out of my reach – nuances
included – but to be honest, I am no longer
interested in being a part. Call it wisdom.
(Image: http://www.astrolog.org)
Baby Whisperer, they call me –
some definitions we just slide
into, naturally; discovered mine
at the age of nine, when my sister,
a child herself, gave birth and I,
the babysitter, was also born.
Ran a school that summer –
charged a quarter a week to
neighbouring parents, promised
to prepare their children for the
year ahead, turned my knack
into an entrepreneurship.
Uprooted at eleven to a highrise
full of families, filled my calendar
with other’s people’s offspring –
was in demand – while other teens
partied and rebelled, my wallet
bulged with babysitter’s cash.
Projected success into future
plans, told the guidance counsellor
I wanted to get my ECE – work in
day care – she scoffed, said I was
too smart, should be a psychiatrist
the world needs shrinks, not nannies.
So I signed up for psychology and
sociology – did not find myself, quit,
married a man – really just a child –
felt I’d found myself in the role of
wife, ignored the fact that I had
only replaced his mother – grew tired,
ran into the arms of another, racing
to have children of his own – knew
how to do children – returned to school,
studied Children’s literature, psychology,
set my sights on being a teacher – but
it all fell apart; alone raising three.
Married again, finding comfort in the
mothering role, became a teacher –
replaced offspring with classrooms;
certain I was fulfilling a calling, until
illness swept it all away, confined me
to a bed, homebound, erased purpose.
But wait; the story doesn’t end there –
because now I’m a grandmother – my
babies have babies – and even from my
invalid bed, I can care for the wee –
the Baby Whisperer still has the touch –
purpose reignited with each new life.
Disability, a bitter wintry storm,
constricts movement, freezes
intentions; intervals of icy peril.
I push against the onslaught,
will exert myself for promises
of toddler-sized embraces, live
for the sunny exuberance of
a grandchild’s laughter – am
momentarily revived; warmth
cut short by the tangled web
of instability defined by this
chaos – am learning to choose
battles; even the most mundane
tasks crippled by complications;
I live short-term, close to home;
bed, the only sanctuary I know,
awaits beyond the banks of
accumulated debris, pushed
aside in my haste for progress;
I am like a baby, startle easy,
sleep lightly, comfort elusive;
I am smothered by protective
measures overstated; sealed
in a plastic bubble, suffocating.
Difficult not to be snowbound
when disability’s frigid tempest
unleashes it heartless blast.
(Image: www.alabamawx.com)
Wading knee-deep,
electric yellow waters
of mud laden stream
the coveted prize –
a mutated version –
Christ’s fish hovers
within arm’s reach;
have touched it –
recoiled out of fear.
Status is stagnation –
movement stymied
by lack of current.
Only the constant
thrum of a winged
pest’s belligerence
punctures stillness,
irritates, its hard –
shelled turquoise
body reminiscent
of Halcyon days,
Caribbean sunsets.
What evil virus has
cemented me here
strangled nomadic
dreams, mired me
in polluted waters
imbued with cruel
uncertainty; faith-
less; immobilized
by juxtaposition?
(Photo courtesy: grist.org)
One Woman's Quest 