Category: Humour

Social Media Blues

LinkedIn wants me to connect
with former colleagues, ignores
the fact that they haven’t opted
to reach out to me, fails to
recognize the state of my disability
sets me on the margins of society

Facebook likes to remind me
of things I did in the past, drags
up conversations, or outings
no longer valid, refuses to
honour the value of letting go –
that moving on is moving up.

twitter wakes me up at night
when I’ve forgotten to mute
the phone, announces likes
and new follows of people
I do not know, rubbing salt
in the wounds of isolation

instagram has shut me out
seems I constantly forget
my password, but they never
fail to send me updates of
the picture perfect events
of those whose minds work.

I sometimes visit snapchat,
whose messages make me laugh
and I know that there are others
more hip to possess, but just
the thought of sign ups has me
reeling with new-found anxiety

Please don’t misunderstand me,
of social media, I’m a fan; it’s just
that I don’t need further indications
of my compromised state, and in the
flesh interactions are a preference,
so technology needs to step down.

(The Daily Post prompt today is fact.)

Parental Passage

Carefully we construct
security for offspring,
add luxuries to entertain,
accommodate growth
with additions, play host
to revolving-door friends.

And yet, we are graded
on performance – met
or unmet expectations –
help up against a stack
of other super parents –
silhouettes of perfection.

Still, we celebrate growing
aspirations, sprouting family,
ignore the slanders, and ease
into age with a tad of kook,
or wild inappropriateness –
all expressions of our love.

Message In A Bottle

My iced tea declares
that risk-taking equates
with freedom, and I cheer
at the synchronicity of a sign –
like manna from heaven –
that empowers my journey,
confirms the righteousness
of present life choices

a sentiment struck down
by the absurdity of
assembly-line bottlers
stamping encouragement
on bottle caps,
sealed and packaged
for mass consumption –
a blatant attempt to capture
the magic of a message in a bottle.

 

Marry Well

Can we talk? said he
chest burdened,
bursting to confess

It’s about our living
situation, you see…
well, maybe you don’t

It’s just that, I have
noticed things are
getting out of hand

and I know you try
hard, and all, but
I’m having trouble

seeing, and I thought,
well, wondered if,
maybe we could…

Whatever are you
rambling on about?
she snapped, clearly

disgruntled; get to
the point – she wasn’t
listening, mind fixed on

task at hand – needed
to find a solution to
growing dissatisfaction

could not longer tolerate
the hellish conditions
of their cesspool lives

to be perfectly candid
she said, we are swimming
around in our own shit

it’s time we moved on!
I couldn’t agree more,
he sighed with relief

content again that he’d
made the right choice
wedding a frank woman.

(The Daily Post prompt is candid.  Photo from personal collection)

Devilish Young Men

Young men are pursuing me,
in my dreams, I am too old
and wily not to recognize
the evil of this intent

wonder if I’m being stalked
by a stroke, or worse –
I wake up, overheated
fling the bedclothes off

as if they are the offending
infiltrators, dismayed to see
how little I have slept, knowing
that the relief will now pass me by

Young men possess a virility
redundant in my life – sexuality
long ago sacrificed on the altar of cancer –
their presence is disconcerting at best

stirring up old emotions, luring me
into nostalgic memories – trickery, I say
to think that masculinity would entertain
intimacy with a mad old hag like me.

(The Daily Post prompt:  entertain.
Image:  Daily Mail)

Stand Out

Obnoxious, I’ve been called
and overly exuberant, and
“no-one-will-ever-love-you”

usually by spurned lovers
or morose types too afraid
to speak for themselves,

dependent on, but loathing
my social ease – I wore it,
of course, the shame, that is

self-chastised, tried to tone
down, dim my hue, but
yellow is yellow, shines,

finds joy in darkness,
laughter in hard times,
even upside-down, radiates.

Turn away, if you must,
wear shades – I’m done
apologizing for standing out.

 

 

 

Idle Mind and All That

What I wouldn’t resort to –
just to get away – meals
prepared by others,
cleaned up, too…

but really, is there
any coming back once
it’s all handed over –
I’d be afraid I’d lose

my identity, come up empty
embarrassed by how little
of value I have to give –
and the guilt would taunt

slap my silly ego, criticize
me for laziness,  acting all
privileged; worth is directly
linked to service…isn’t it?

And my shadow self would
appear – just break in uninvited –
and threaten complicity, beat me
down further, hope doomed

no way to justify my absence,
to keep the critics at bay,
I need to work, need to lose
myself in the routine of endless

chatter, a blanket of small talk
to keep me safe – busy noise
to drown out the thieving voices
and help me find myself again.

Garbage Night

Don’t take out the garbage
during a black out – alligators
prowl in blackened streets,
lurk curbside waiting
for the unsuspecting –
I’ve seen them,
chasing the pedestrian,
my screams ineffective;
witnessed the brave
returning from the night
disheveled and shaken
Was it the alligator? I ask
with all the compassion
of I-told-you-so.
No, comes the reply,
it’s the tiger
out back.
So much danger
in the dark, please
wait till the lights
come on before
dealing with trash.

(Inspired by a dream and dedicated to my husband who never takes out the garbage the night before pick up.)

Photo from Trip Advisor

Age and Obstacles

Sloth-like she shuffles
each stride an argument
against unwilling muscles,
ignores spasms, lips pursed
in concentration, advances

Cockeyed he totters,
step…hop…step, poker-hot
stabs punctuating his effort
moves swiftly as if to out run
pain, face set in determination

They are out of sync, oddball
awkward sightseers, obstacles
for the fast-moving able-bodies
that whir past unable to fathom
motivation in crooked spines.

The race here is against time,
propelled by insatiable thirst,
they forage for snippets worthy
of hoarding, squirrels readying
for winter’s harsh call, days

when minds still alert will hunger
despite bodies inert, they will
dine on memory, boast about
the daring, reminisce fondly
over adventures hard won.

(The Daily Post prompt is snippet.  Hope you enjoyed.)