Category: disability

Unwanted

Like a wanted woman,
I hide in public places

One step ahead of recognition,
ignoring friendly gestures,
leaving confusion in my wake

I’m tired of this game,
the pretence – long only
to turn myself in

tear away the mask
and announce
my presence

but I’m afraid –
could lose it all –
career, reputation

all for a crime I did not commit.

Oh wait…I already did –
just like a wanted woman…

(Image from personal collection.  My images, some with poetry are now available through Society6.  I’d love it if you’d check us out and leave feedback.)

Sleeping Alone

Sleeping alone
with so much intrusion –

child born of good intentions
awash in a trail of barricades

I cope, cook up breezes, strike
wet ground – stuff myself to satiate

the onslaught, ground rapidly shifting –
Earth Mother exerting presence –

too stubborn, I turn away, look for
God but my cup keeps moving –

I am unreachable, charmed by
a broken tale, aimless, oppositional

overwhelmed – cry out but absence
holds no listeners – need adhesive

to fix this urgency – a peerless torrent –
if only I could simply these wounds

find a stopgap – emotion overflows,
exerts turmoil, sorrow replaying

sleep offers no repair, alone,
tormented by the issue at hand.

(Every so often, I revisit old poems and revise.  Sleeping Alone first appeared here in December of 2017, when I was still in the throes of severe illness.  I’ve come along way and it’s good to look back and see the progress. I am also linking this up to my weekly challenge, reaching.)

Soul Stalker

Downy blankets of white softly settle,
Nature gratefully submitting to slumber
as the Earth bids a seasonal adieu.

Inside, my body craving hibernation,
curls into layered bedding, draws shades
against the snowy scene, wills respite.

My soul, a cat, lulled by the miracle
stretches wide paws, arches, ready
to discover some mystic wilderness.

She is primordial, a snow leopard,
camouflaged, elusive, a silent stalker
instinctively hungry for nourishment.

Weakened, I yield, certain she will prey
on this near lifeless flesh, leaving me
bloodless, hide-less:  a mere carcass.

Then I shall lay down in the frigid warmth
of winter’s illusion and surrender rotting
self to the Earth’s core; pray for rebirth.

(Soul Stalker first appeared here in January of 2016.  I am submitting it for dVerse’s prompt: Confessional poetry, hosted by HA.)

The Same, But Broken

Fragility blindsides –
I am woman.
Strong.

Courageous, some say –
a sentiment beyond my reach
having not chosen this state.

Fragility is pervasive –
body reduced to miniscule fibers,
stretched, torn, bordering
on broken.

Overwhelmed, mind obsesses –
will neither organize
nor let go…

If only I could let go…

I am weeping
and not

Weeping from frustration –
immediate impossibility –

Unwilling to weep for totality of loss –
it is beyond me.

Illness is regarded
with disgust,
indifference,
repulsion

There is no equality for the disabled

And, yet…

Rawness –
stripped of busy-ness –
renders me as any other

A soul yearning for a meaningful existence.

Maybe illness is the great equalizer.

(The Same, But Broken was first written in December of 2014, when I suffered from severe Myalgic Encephalomyelitis.  It is revised here.)

Tired

so tired…

the heaviness of slumber
settles on me like a straight jacket –
no point resisting…

was it a poisoned apple
that struck me so –
or is this exhaustion
emblematic…

of what….
a soul aspiring to flight
weighted down by sensitivity…

an ego tied to ideals
no more salient than balloons
whose once inflated bodies
now pollute the landscape…

I am withered…

lifeless…

breath shallow…

pulse irregular…

cursing the elusiveness of sleep…

suspended in a tortuous limbo,
mocked by vitality,
scorned by ambition,
loathed by the hale…

is there purpose
to this perpetual cycle…
a message
carved within the walls
of this fleshy tomb…
cryptic whispers
buried deep beneath
the hardening layers of fog?

no strength here
to decipher riddles…
encumbered by lassitude,
like an iron blanket
smothering desire…

even weeds will push
through concrete barriers
follow the sun’s rays
to find life…

why then can’t I…

…so tired….

(Tired originally appeared 04/17.  I submit it here again for Daily Addictions prompt mock.)

Defeated, I Turn Away

Back rested against post,
the figure guards the median –
poised with cardboard sign,
a simple plea for help.

Positions himself amid
gridlocked targets – usually,
I look away, disquieted,
but today I do not, wondering

what I could possibly give
this man that would lift him
from his plight –
surely others have tried,
and, yet, here he is
day after day
the same –

and
I am struck
with realization –
that we are not
all that different
he and I

both trapped in unhealthy
patterns, having adopted
personas that once served –
but now weigh heavily
with the stench of permanence

Does he not know it’s all
an illusion – a game we play
wherein we are the pawn?

I don’t know it either –
turn away, defeated.

(Frank is hosting at dVerse tonight and the jive is frustration and heartbreak.)

Good Afternoon?

Rumi’s dawn breezes – once sage advice – now taunt me.  I am loathe to greet the day, not that I despise its arrival, rather that waking has become laborious since the onset of chronic illness.  Daughter of a military man, I am conditioned to rise before the sun, have a lifetime of such anecdotes to my credit, however; while the brain is still willing, the body groans, and aches wail with renewed emphasis as the numbing cocoon of sleep loosens.  Hours dwindle from the first inkling of consciousness till muscles comply with movement, and I am lucky if I’m actually able to utter ‘Good Morning”.

Rays, like razors, slice,
invade sleep’s cocoon – absent
winged emergence.

(Mish is hosting in the dVerse pub tonight with the prompt of morning.  I have also worked in the promptings of Fandango (loathe), Ragtag Community (labour), and Daily Addictions (sage).  Thank you all for your inspiration.)

No Race Today

Left leg
on strike,
brain
disengaged,
energy
scrounging
for re-charge
coming up empty

Body
derelict –
this illness
sensual agony –
forgive
my silences,
any absences

Spirit
like a racehorse
strains against
the reins
too taut,
hungry
to feel
the wind
in its stride,
breath
freedom.

Gate is closed.

(The challenge of living with chronic illness is to maintain balance.  There is a disconnect between what the body is capable of and what the spirit aspires to accomplish.  Today, body wins.  Thank you to Sammi Cox for the Weekend Writing Prompt: derelict; to Fandango for sensual; and to Daily Addictions for agony – all words that help convey this experience.)