While babes slumber,
calm, unconscious,
dreamers manifest
Goddess power –
pray for their ill,
harness a creator
an ancient dwelling
(ignore the presence
of trios – ascension
a slow plod) – choose
to honour the arrival
of beauty’s essence
the light of healing,
creativity expressed,
illuminators, artists
Grace encompassing
compassion, nocturnal
inspiration honouring
the aged, the ailing,
all beloveds, respect
for this blessed life.
(Image: Pinterest)
Glue, she mutters, massive locks
of blonde hair, piled atop her head
mysteriously held in place despite
the breeziness of her top-down sports.
Not even the wind can undo her,
I marvel at the glint of gold
at her neck, the sparkle of a rock
as she waves, free-wheeling by
What does this woman know that
I don’t; how has she kept it all
together – the years refusing to
drag her down, always riding high?
Glue, echoes the young mother,
from the doorway of her two-story
mansion, children running amuck,
her life, like her bright red sweater
ostentatious, showy – no amount
of material possessions, no career
or besotted husband can blot out
the turmoil churning within.
Glue? I question the dubious advice;
caught off guard by the bluntness,
unprepared to accept guidance
from those I’ve judged so harshly.
What can these women, so far
removed my disabled existence,
know of my plight, understand
about my needs – my failings?
Glue, mumbles a forlorn figure
once a mighty director, a mentor
a man who saved me from myself
his shadow self weak and distraught
Down and out, proclaims the mother,
shaking her head in disapproval,
Sold out, quips the blonde snapping
her bejeweled fingers; I am stunned
had not anticipated such a source
of strength to have fallen so deeply –
disillusioned are we both, broken
by heartlessness, lost in apathy.
Glue, I’ll run it by my doctor, maybe
there is something to it – can’t be
worse than the molasses coursing
through my veins – is adhesive
enough to bond together fragments
cease the rattling of this mind –
give me the backbone to recognize
myself in all and apply forgiveness?
(Ever in pursuit of new understanding of my dreams, this poem is a companion to the change of perspective piece written on One Woman’s Quest II.)
(Note: Inspiration for my poetry is derived from the Dreamtime. Occasionally, a nightmare will evoke the creation of a short story. A recent nightmare continues to haunt me, so I have attempted both forms of literature to garner new meaning. The poem follows and the prose version can be seen here. Which form offers more insights I wonder? objectivity in the form of comments appreciated.
Nightmare:Â A Poem
Melancholy hovers, haunts,
fed by isolation, taunts
threads of sanity.
Darkness, incomplete,
reveals movement –
trickery of light?
Fear’s grip renders
motionless its victim
serenity shattered
Logic has no tolerance
for the undefined,
ghosts off-limits
Is disease the culprit,
inflammation upsetting
equilibrium, a mind aflame?
The veil between worlds
is flimsy, unhinged, shifts
awareness now peaked
I know you are there!
Show yourself!
Stillness.
Madness threatening,
pleas gather insistence
Come forward – be known!
These are merely games
one reality pit against
another, neither winning
A feminine figure emerges –
her presence emitting an aura
of alarm, indicates a window
Two figures, cloaked in black
towering shadows stalking
live prey, the scent of vulnerability
The ego withdraws, seeks
cover, cannot stop the onslaught
of monsters emerging from walls
Delusion, one last prayer for sanity
but the floorboards recede, reveal
skeletons, there is no escape
She’s in the kitchen
cleaning, prepping
sweetness;Â 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
disapproval, like raw egg
drips off her china plates
shame of misadventures
she cannot scrub away
only serves tea now,
the smell of liquor –
mingled with cigarette
and 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 eggs cook on stove,
dreams of romance shelved.
(Image: bunnysvintagevictory.blogspot.com)
(Note: I draw much of my inspiration from dreams, and recently I’ve been challenging myself to write prose as well as poetry.  This poem and the piece, The Vortex, are inspired by the same dream.)
A bee, caught
in a violent draught,
collides with woman
her body a salty
concrete wall
of frenzy, she is rigid,
obsessed, unspoken rage
emanating from her pores –
a gale force spiral, woman-made
vortex threatening the sanctity
of her contrived domesticity
Normally, she would swat at him –
is aware of the potential for venom
delivered via puncture – cannot pull
herself out of the vacuum of fixation
eyes riveted, hands locked on video
controls, breath shallow, heart pounding
a rabid diatribe of self – loathing:
useless woman,
irresponsible,
neglectful,
unworthy,
guilty,
fat
with each beat the tempest grows
perceptibly, the bee breaks free,
encircles the figure of a lone man
bent over a fragrant cup of brew,
is dismissed by a distracted swat
lazily careens upward, buzzing
past a sleeping child, and settling
on a sweet sticky cheek, startling
its owner, who lashes out then rises
unsteady legs toddling in search
of Momma! , the whine a catalyst,
piercing his mother’s mania –
her instincts now cat-like, body
pouncing past the insolent insect,
arms reaching towards pudgy limbs
thrusting forward into loosely
attached guard rails, now plunging
the bee surveilles the scene –
a final circuitous flight before
finding escape, the drone of his wings
a testament to the glory of being a bee.
(Image: www.flickr.com)
Nestled in with childhood truths –
second-hand, missing perspective –
nursing a creeping creativity:
insignificant clarity expanding
measurably, hurried.
Once social, now retreating
papered over failure, have fallen
frigid waves infiltrating, overtaking
chronically pained, over and over
contemplating flight, freedom
voiceless, expressionless, flat
even revelation muted, unmoving
boundaries, discussed, protective
currently crumbling…underestimated
the struggle, the pervasiveness
have considered a military approach
strident restrictions to nullify passions
but I am a weaver, open to uncovering
blessings in failure, employed in soaring,
grounded, yet questing, unsettled
disease is not a repellent for the mind,
objects conjure movement, creatures
undoubtedly defensive, renewal motivated
I am dank, moist, lacking burning passion
in this explosive personal nest.
Have landed –
actually, volunteered for –
a supporting role
intended fun, but
comedy eluded,
am fighting for a life
fearful choreography
exacting a cathartic script
haywire admission of fault
my memory fails
positions me, in brief
spurts, faltering
co-performers push
encourage, emanate
loving commitment
buy into mania
my cause: avoidance
beyond distraction
I miss crucial lines
am unlatched
trailing off
self-punish
repeated regression
amends scripted
such a production
ignoring undefined
hunger, knowledge
contracted,
blossoming role
forgettable
like Shakespeare
manufacturing
good-hearted bits
staging a performance
detailing elements
turning points
obligated to a
co-dependent audience
willing to settle
no acts define scenes
no exit for escape
stage door revolves
and I’ve landed –
no, volunteered for
a secondary role.
(Image from pinterest.com)
There’s a dead body in my bathtub –
metaphorically speaking, of course,
but the shock of it is real
I’ve seen her before, this woman,
young, stylish – like a rising star –
her nakedness is blinding
How long has she been here, and
is she not cold: stark white skin
tinged with blue – appalling
I’d be more sympathetic, except
I’ve enough to contend with
given the plans we are making
the revolving door of visitors
and obligations and responsibility;
she’s more than I can deal with
but wait… did I detect movement,
could there be life in her yet,
I cannot tear myself away
there’s something eerily familiar
about her youthfulness Рa naivet̩
that I’ve long since buried
reminds me of dreams I once had –
fantasies of theater, and Shakespeare –
wanted to be the next Maggie Smith
I see it all now – the gradual sapping
of life, slashed by choices – a more
conventional route, an achingly painful
death – oh, I’ve tried to keep her alive,
dabbled in sidelines, never a priority;
you see worth is tied up in tradition
and to pursue one’s dreams…well,
that’s just self-centered folly and
I let her whither, I admit, but
I hadn’t meant to let her die
just could not bear the burden
of one more disappointment
Anger rises and I want to shake her
this embodiment of failure – how
was I supposed to keep you alive
You were an escape, that’s all
a vessel for hope and aspirations
the musings of a misguided youth
what kind of devilry is this –
you showing up now, when illness
has claimed me, and potential
wanes – are you taunting me?
Is this a threat? don’t just lie there
mired in your own drama
face me, woman – and so she rises
like a second coming, and I see
that she is only a mirror
a reflection of myself, not disabled,
but polished, refined, accomplished
challenging me to never give up
be found dead in a pool of regrets –
a certainty at the rate I am going –
obstacles, she tells me, are illusory
success requires goals, and progress
is not defined by limitations, and if
you pace yourself, value yourself
believe in yourself, in us, then there
is time – and for a brief moment,
her image fades and I see my father
blue eyes exuding warmth, and
confidence, encouraging me on
and I understand: I am still alive…
( Image by Elena del Palacio, Untitled)
Ex-lovers,
like criminals
line up –
a visceral backdrop
Another vies
to take their place,
a critical eye
and no-nonsense
disposition
questions motivations
highlights the faults
in righteous accusations,
bends the arrow of blame
reassigning guilt
the jilted,
now pathetic,
craves absolution,
starves for appreciation
awakens to
sickening revelation
that sex alone
cannot sustain
relationship
understands
too late
the value
in personal
accountability.
(Image: www.psychologicalscience.org)
He possessed a certain divinity,
a soft-spoken modesty she read
as safe harbour, fell for maiden-like
innocence, her blessed compliance.
Married in the sacred way, carnal
mounting accentuating a tailored
love – husband and wife exploring,
celebrating glorious submission
until joy plummeted – impossible
to duplicate infatuation in a void –
they grasped at objects, mystery –
remodeled, relocated, searched,
constructed a delicate balance –
contrived happiness, passionless,
spontaneous and fearful, rawness
of exposed souls clinging together
saw deliverance in the perfection
of celebrity, worshiped at the feet
of media icons, like fools pandering
to a naked Emperor, no amount of
polish could contain the anxiousness
of their precariousness; quietly he
undressed another, fiery girl, while
surprised onlookers, sensitive, yet
unwilling to intervene – the discernible
darkness seeping through cracks of a
once golden haze – closed their doors to
the holy union now veering off course,
shielded themselves from bludgeoning
nostalgia, the anguished cries of vows
slaughtered bleeding onto sidewalks,
as if pain bore tentacles, spidery limbs
able to infiltrate the secrets of their
own carefully compartmentalized
partnerships, disrupt the grind and
lay bare the godless infidelities within.
(Image: nypost.com)
One Woman's Quest 