Inside
intentions
defined by
authority
restricted by
accessibility
budgets
reason
no room
for bohemian
attitudes
heart
allure
of mystery
spontaneity
luxuriating
expansive
ideologies
dreams
effusive
rationality
dictates
decisive
response
Curious by nature,
and drawn by hope
we push forward
spring ourselves
from the mud-mired
traps of psychological
undoings
focus on a horizon
where sunrises
and sunsets
offer glimpses of glory
optimist and pessimist
alike, daring to believe
that the beckoning future
bears equal promise.
(This poem started with a few lines scribbled in the middle of the night. Â To see the writing process, visit me at One Woman’s Quest II.)
Death came for me
in that year of awakening
before numbers doubled
and puberty banished
autonomy – it knocked.
Peace accompanied certainty
as I lay, motionless in the water’s
depths, surprised at the absence
of panic, of struggle, a resigned
surrender overtaking me.
Light beckoned and a harmonic
chorus, like the whisper of angels
intoned  : Be strong,and
Know you are not alone,
before l lost consciousness,
And when I came to, sopping wet,
dry land beneath me, the softness
of death’s light, and the voice
of Heaven’s choir remained
etched in my soul’s memory.
Drunken bodies –
silhouettes of adults –
ignore posted warnings
and locked gates –
clumsily scale fences
and plunge into dark,
their hoots echoing
between uniformly
lined-up balconies –
pristine rows of duplicate
houses, trimmed beds
and cement curbs
punctuating order.
I watch, horrified,
feel the bile rise,
have signed responsibility,
will bear the brunt
of any damage –
am burdened with worry
unwilling and unable
to take such a risk;
walk away and await
the fallout…
A vainless fret –
two old women
testing the rules,
stretching the limits
of structured guidelines
more ridiculed than
prosecuted, but the rift
has been solidified
used, I feel, and
disrespected, enraged –
not yet able to examine
the tension settings
of self-imposed restraints,
carefully guarded decorum
choking out compassion –
sensibility rattled.
(The story behind the poem is posted at One Woman’s Quest II)
What purpose is served
in going back – and yet,
I find myself revisiting,
expecting what?
Revelation…
apology…
renewal…
I am no more than a guest
in history’s halls
powerless to undo
the drama, only
risk further complications.
Past equates with inequity,
no point turning on
the faucet of resentment
unleashing floods of anger.
Best to focus on tomorrow
forgive the past and self
and open to the new.
Wary of ruts –
the lies I tell myself
sprouting roots,
impeding progress.
Yet, without roots
how am I defined –
does impermanence
not also leave a stain?
The ground shifts
beneath me
and I dance
imperfectly
inventing a rhythm
that defies ruts,
mocks impermanence
and eludes definition.
We are children, all
in our rawest moments,
our needs, like snot
running unattended,
our cries, like tantrums
unappreciated.
We are related, all
the distance between us
defined only by miles,
our DNA infinitely linked –
does this mean we’ve
abandoned one another?
Sold out our familial roots,
in favour of separation,
easier to promote self
than feel obligated
to distant masses –
unfamiliar, unwanted.
How do we proceed
from here, our awakening
late in coming, our duties
overdue, and the shortfalls
of addictions rendering
our priorities askew?
We are children, all
our needs universal,
a caring governance
craved, overlooked
by those who play
at being adults.
Intensity drops in,
early, before I have a chance
to set the day in order –
puts me on the defensive.
She clings, encourages me
to hold on, her sick creativity
awake with impulsivity –
I am ailing, loyal, compelled
to launder the linens,
desperately trying to find corners
in the circular fitted sheet –
dependent on daily chores.
She wants to talk about feelings –
but I am still numbed from sleep,
from this never-ending illness,
from this perfectionist drive for optimism.
She wants to embrace, hug me
into submission, lecture me on the benefits
of organics and loose-leaf teas, and I am
too busy avoiding her to be grateful.
(My chosen prompt for today’s challenge is “circles can’t have corners”)
A simple shoebox, repurposed
with plastered images of dreams –
paper affirmations of aspirations –
shelved and forgotten, its contents
snapshots, faded and torn, remnants
of another time, a different future –
captured when potential was prime
and possibility untainted by illness
this one was retirement – a supposed
celebration – but note how the colour
has drained, the cracks obliterating
pride of accomplishment; and notice
how this one crumbles to the touch –
the fragments dissipating even as
my life has dissipated, the image
lost before memory resurfaces, so
much loss when circumstance dictates
direction, overpowers will, and plans
like snowflakes, vanish in the heat
of reality – pain and insult burning
but wait – this one looks promising –
the edges only slightly torn, the image
discernible – could it be that there is
hope yet – a future author I might be?
That’s the thing about times to come,
we fill them with imaginings, and pray,
our hope, like balloons set free in a sea
of unforeseen challenges, and seldom
does the end result reflect projected
plotting, and yet, there is power in
the dreaming, and so I’ll replace the old
with new photographs to store away.
(Today’s NaPoWriMo challenge asks us to consider future.)
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.
(Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is to write a poem which exemplifies simultaneity.  A Bee’s Perspective first appeared in May, 2017.)
One Woman's Quest 