Category: life

A Child Responds

Console me
when life, upended
shuns and ridicules
let me know I’ll be alright

Step out
of picket-fence thinking,
find beauty in my uniqueness,
show me that love has no boundaries

Teach me
to treasure all that I am
even if that all is beyond
your comprehension

Grow with me
encourage exploration
demonstrate courage
in face of the unforeseeable.

(A Child Responds follows yesterday’s poem: A Mother Asks. Both poems were inspired by a post I wrote a few years back: No One Will Ever Love You)

 

A Mother Asks

How to receive a child
whose untimely arrival
serves only to punctuate
existing turmoil; whose
cries further entrap
a despondent mother…

How to love a child
who differs markedly
from gifted sons
from idyllic daughters
bears only resemblance
to the crime’s perpetrator

a child who lacks
the finesse so carefully
imbued in siblings –
fiery eyes and attitude,
preferring solitude of nature
to niceties of family life

How to guide this child,
this symbol of a past best left
behind, this burgeoning woman
defying all expectations –
this enigmatic burden?

(Follow up to this poem is:  A Child Responds)

 

Hopeful

 

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.  To see the writing process, visit me at One Woman’s Quest II.)

Mortality

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.

 

A Falling Out

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)

Adjust the Focus

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.

Maturity Called For

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.

 

 

Finding Corners in Fitted Sheets

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.

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(My chosen prompt for today’s challenge is “circles can’t have corners”)