Weighed down by complications –
you see, the amount of baggage
I carry surpasses my storage
capacity; and despite attempts
to simplify, paranoia tends to
my bathroom routines, and
no amount of persuasion can
appease her suspicions; and
the majority of my contents
have been accumulated by
my father’s business, and not
really mine to unload, although
I try, his tyranny still haunts me;
and well, anything new that I
start has to be protected from
the familial bouts of insanity;
and that is why I just want to
pack my bags and get out of
here, and be a mother to my
children; but it’s complicated.
Category: disability
What Scars Remain?
Should I escape these shackles,
manage to re-surface, swim
despite this weakened condition
against the currents of disability,
find myself once again on the
solid grounds of civilization;
will I be embraced with cheers
of victory, or slotted into some
back room, reserved for the fallen,
spoken to in hushed tones,
forever handled at arms length,
an object to be feared?
And if I manage to fight these
bonds that for so long have
threatened to annihilate,
will I have the bravery to face
the calling that once defined me,
shake off the cobwebs of
disorientation, defy the
certainty of unpreparedness,
draw from the well of past
experiences and rise to
a new battle, proving the
validity of my return?
Or, with freedom, do I look
to opportunity, clear the slate
of former ambitions, rewrite
the pages of my destiny,
embrace an attitude of
rebirth, decide to relinquish
the sword, cut my losses
and redefine a new, gentler
way of being in the world,
less dependent on a system
which undoubtedly propelled
this descent in the first place?
(quoteko.com)
Learning Disabled
Really want to be gainfully
engaged, embrace learning
but disability is in charge,
like an uneducated thug,
skulking behind my back,
sneering at my attempts
to demonstrate capability.
I am slow processing,
easily distracted, socially
driven, control slipping,
botching efforts to show
potential, suspect that
disability, the hard-headed
tough guy that he is, revels
in my failure, despising me.
(image from: www.greatschools.org)
Carnival Living
Temporarily positioned
in a 24-hour carnival,
gambling on progress;
sleeping with delusion –
yet another attempt to
secure intimacy missed –
wheelchair accessible
only if accompanied,
a woman out of time,
anxiously dreaming of
a room lit joyously with
the surprise of pairing –
instead disoriented, I
seek guidance, am re-
routed, willingly accept
balance, emotional
stability suffice, I am
unfinished business
attempting to move on
memory not working –
a classic submersion
dulled by immobility
desire packaged, laid
down, sliding into panic,
self abandoned in favour
of a prophecy of denial –
this 24-hour carnival life.
(image from http://www.listzblog.com)
(Un)Staged
So much rides on adherence to script –
carefully mapped out movements and
lines delivered with precise intonation.
Creativity stuffed into memorized
passages, rehearsed roles, timing
contrived for optimum reactions.
It’s all about the audience, approval,
the importance of positive acclaim,
aiming for that encore performance.
My soul is an improviser –
loathes conventionality,
fears stagnation,
disrupts routine scenarios
with flashes of spicy wit;
thrives on the unexpected,
fueled by gasps, or ohs, or titter,
ignores the pandemonium
as fellow players scramble
to find their cues,
fall in line.
A trickster-spirit
arrogantly hogging the stage
deliberately sabotaging
prescribed protocols;
chastised.
I am contrite, beg forgiveness,
swear to behave in character,
follow predetermined dialogue.
Curtain is set to rise on Act II;
pressure mounting; conformity
threatens to strangle my soul:
panic sets in –
I am not prepared,
have not committed to memory
this role I’ve been assigned –
am certain to disappoint,
again.
Arachnophobia
Creativity –
eight-legged predator –
invades the decks
of my listing mind,
reproducing rapidly.
Her generous,
bejewelled appendages
skittering beneath
my plastic-boned
Caucasian frailty.
I hesitate –
friend or foe?
Should I trample
crush this invasion,
or surrender…
risk madness?
We are ocean –
bound, shoreless
prefer interior spaces
wary of open vistas
equally vulnerable
collapsible
Skittish
evaders
intent on
escape
future
uncertain…
I flee
creativity’s
lair – enter
into darker
passages
Destiny –
creativity’s cousin –
awaits, tail raised
in venomous arc –
dances a warning
does not
strike
body
glowing
phosphorus
green,
melts into
swirling,
flourescent
particles of
Kundalini
rising.
(Image: fineartamerica.com)
Reticent Poet
Find me in the audience,
three rows back, amidst
enthusiasts, humbled by
your expertise, perched,
questions burning tongue,
too reticent to find a voice,
afraid of being discovered,
ridiculed, or misconstrued,
as if you found my poetry,
see only the images formed
there, miss the raw emotion.
I’d want to scream “Stop!”
Too many polished writers
whose words, in black and
white, float through the web
while mine are immobilized
Yet, I return, hungry to feast
from the same banquet, miss
what is being served up, as I
have no plate ready to receive.
Love, Like Shoes
If searching for love
was like shopping for shoes,
I’d fixate on the simplest
of finds, choosing practicality
over fashion flair.
My preference is for earthy,
unassuming, plain is fine
as long as the structure
gives me room to breath –
no grasping too tight.
If I shopped for love,
like I do for shoes,
I’d ignore those pushy
sales lines, opt instead
for a supportive sole,
settle for guaranteed comfort
over flashy heels, can’t bear
the instability of pedestals,
love flattery like most,
but need to feel grounded.
No doubt I’d question
my selection, offer it up
to my children for feedback
be mocked, dissuaded,
put it back and search anew,
discover futility in my seeking,
realize that I need new love
like I need new shoes –
only a foolish indulgence
for a woman who lives in bed.
Casting Call
Anticipation that life will one day recommence –
as if a curtain will open and there I’ll be, sitting
in the audience, hungrily waiting for the play –
has drawn me from my solitude, encouraged.
Have a friendly enough disposition, once graced
the boards myself – a lifetime ago now – confident
in my ability to engage, find kindred conversation,
may even make a friend or two, unless I disappear
again, slip back into the silence, abandon others
without a trace, grow restless, search for meaning
among the sheepish drones –a preponderance of
perpetual inactivity begetting obesity, choosing
comfort over confrontation – the curtain is drawn
the drama unfolding and we idol sitters, we fickle
non-committers watch agape, dumbfounded by
the acts, defy our better instincts, remain inert,
prefer to go back to sleep, but the dogged truths
of inhumanity are playing out on life’s stage, and
we are called to brush off the lull of anxious
politeness and dare to rise to anger, find passion
claim a role and be cast into the action, no time
for auditions, the script is unfolding, the ending
assured, unless we are willing to awaken, prod
the masses, and re-envision a less tragic ending.
(Image from camstage.com)
Isolation’s Hold
Disability covets isolation, this
stripped-back, box-like state.
Rustic serenity, with breathing
room would be preferable, but
nostalgia creeps in and lack of
self-worth leaves the door open
to unwanted visitors, phantoms
of former torments, nondescript
invaders targeting the lonely,
misconstruing lack of health
for neediness, preying on weak-
hearted, presuming incapability.
I am unwell, not unwanted, effort
to protest ignored, I grow wary of
fellow travelers, am vandalized by
nightly attacks, attempt to reach
out, aim for strength, logic, clarity,
dial-up past abuse instead, cannot
fathom the purpose of unsolicited
persecution, grasping at isolation.
One Woman's Quest 